Happy Pills
by Greene Apples
Summary: Cameron thinks she's doing the world a favor, but PPTH falls into chaos when she distributes her medical breakthrough. Reviews appreciated! FINISHED: Chpts 8 and 9 up!
1. Happy Pills

When my sister and I collaborate on a story for ff . net, we use the penname "Greene Apples." It also tends to be a humorous endeavor. Expect randomness that somehow all makes sense within the grand scheme of things. There is a plot to this story, believe it or not.

Readers, you're lucky: The first two chapters are relatively sane. From there... Proceed at your own diagnostically safe pace.

Also, we don't own "House" or any of its characters; we profess our love for Hugh Laurie and Rob Sean; and we mean no offense to rats, tic-tacs, Charles Dickens, Cameron and her quest for worldpeace, gangstas, and crocodiles. Most of that will make sense soon. Hopefully.

Enjoy!

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**Cameron, Allison A.**

**Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital**

**Dopathalamine **

**14 April 2006**

**"Positivism in a Pill: The Future of Hope"**

The discovery of Dopathalamineis both a groundbreaking and encouraging development in medicine. Taken three times a day, Dopathalamine—commonly referred to as the "Happy Pill"—actually increases the level of endorphins and neurotransmitters, particularly dopamine, in the brain. Thus, an increased feeling of happiness permeates one's thought process, lifting a dour or melancholic mood…

--------------------------------

Wilson stopped reading and looked up from the paper in his hands. Cameron was waiting nervously, expectantly, across from him.

"You've developed a Happy Pill?"

Cameron finally smiled. "Yes. I've been putting in some extra hours in the lab over the past few months." She gestured back to the paper. "I send that away for publication by the Board of Health tomorrow. I just wanted your opinion, if you could review it…?"

The oncologist squinted his eyes in slight skepticism. "Why not ask Chase or Foreman?"

Cameron looked away momentarily. "Foreman already stole my last article. This is my one big chance to get the credit for something _I_ did. And Chase…" She shrugged, as if to say she trusted his advice on hair styling more than his medical opinion.

Wilson nodded. He glanced from the eight-page article and then back to the young intern. "And why not House?"

"House…" Cameron's voice lilted, trailing off. "He's been a bit _busy_ today."

"Busy?" Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. Cuddy has us all scheduled for clinic duty this morning."

"The interns too?"

She nodded. "House said it wasn't fair that Cuddy forces us into a bonding experience, but I think he finally pushed his luck."

"Why? What happened?"

"Nothing much, according to him. He just sent memos around to the department heads letting everyone know that her computer's secret access code was PartyPants."

"Oh." Wilson looked almost disappointed. "I thought that e-mail was just for me."

Cameron managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes, then tapped her article in his hands. "If you could review that, though, I'd really appreciate it. I have to go meet everyone in the clinic now."

She'd turned to leave, and was walking briskly down the corridor when she heard Wilson behind her.

"Wait, Cameron." Wilson flipped through some pages, a look of brief consternation on his boyish face. She stopped, waiting for him to catch up. "This gives the medical details of the Happy Pills contents, but it doesn't say anything about tests."

"Tests?"

"You _did_ test these pills, didn't you?"

"Well, I did, on some lab rats and things."

"Cameron, you can't release published papers on a drug that hasn't been tested on humans."

"But there's nothing in here that's not naturally in a person's brain to begin with. All it does is up the level of 'feel-good' chemicals. Dopamine makes a person more receptive to praise and rewards; endorphins reduce pain and promote pleasure, too."

"I know what the chemicals do, Cameron, but to what extent, is what I'm asking."

She paused, taking a breath and looking him over seriously. "When the lab rats took the pill three times a day, their mood improved significantly. They were far more interested in socializing, in their wheels, in eating…"

"Ah-hmm."

"I've done the research. Dr. Wilson, I've been working on this for the past _six months_."

"But you still have no idea what its effects on people are."

"It just increases some chemicals," Cameron said steadily. "That's all. It's a simple dosage that balances out the irritability of unhappiness."

Wilson sighed. "Happy Pills."

"Happy Pills." Cameron dug through her lab coat and withdrew a vial of her developed medication. "Here. Look."

Cameron dumped a few into his open palm. They were small, circular, and tinted yellow. He lifted one to the light.

"You actually put smiley faces on them?"

"I thought people should be encouraged when they take positive medicine."

"The medicine is _encouraging _them, then?"

"It's—it's reinforcing their positive decision to feel better."

"Vicodin makes House feel better, and he doesn't need to have a grin pressed onto the pill," Wilson said wryly. "All that matters is the effect. That's what will encourage people to take the medicine or not: If it works."

"I'm sure it does."

"How sure?"

"Sure enough to let you try one."

Wilson baulked. "What?"

"Trust me, they're fine. Honestly." She peered up at him with her pleading, mascara-rimmed eyes. "Please. I need help with this."

Wilson, the perpetual needer of neediness, sighed. Well, there was no denying he could use a happiness boost. After moving out of House's apartment, he was struggling to adjust to life without dishes to gripe over, stoops to pointlessly wait on, and couches to wet. Then there had been the date-that-wasn't-really-a-date with Cuddy. He hadn't won a Poker game since he beat the department a few months back, either.

He glanced down at the pills again. "Three a day, huh?"

"Three a day."

Wilson hesitated for one instant; then, pocketing the extra ones, he popped a pill into his mouth and swallowed.

Cameron smiled ebulliently. "You'll be feeling great in no time."

"How long does it take to start working?"

"About a half-hour."

"And it lasts…?"

"About eight. Three doses go the full twenty-four hours."

Eight hours of happiness sounded good. Wilson checked his watch. He had a full line-up of cancer patients to tend to back in his office, but first he needed to talk to House.

As Wilson and Cameron made their way to the Clinic, the oncologist reviewed her article once more.

"I guess you can add that it has been tested on people now," he said offhandedly.

"And we'll know side-effects, too."

Wilson came to an abrupt halt. "Side-effects? What side-effects?"

Cameron tried to wave a hand dismissively, but it wasn't very convincing. "Nothing. Nothing much, at least."

"'Nothing much.' That means there's a little of something." He put his hands on his hips in his Wilson-esque stance. "What side-effects?"

"_Nothing_," Cameron insisted. "Just… Early on, the rats exhibited some fear syndromes."

"Fear syndromes."

"Yes. They scampered away from the wheel, they hid when I tried to pick them up, just little things."

Wilson rubbed at his forehead. "Wait, wait. You said the pills increase endorphins."

"Yes."

"Cameron, endorphins are released in positive situations but they also go up dramatically in response to fear. These pills might just kick-start a false panic system in a person's brain."

Cameron shook her head adamantly. "But the dopamine should balance it out. The rats were fine within a few hours. I just had to up their dosage."

"You know, you could've told me this _before_ I took the pill."

"You wouldn't have taken it then."

"I think you're spending too much time around House. He's wearing off on you."

"Dr. Wilson." She touched his sleeve reassuringly. "I wouldn't have given you the pills if I wasn't completely sure its final effect would be positive."

They'd come to the Clinic, Cameron visibly more assured than Wilson, who was now looking more nervous than he did going home to a wife. He handed her article back to her.

"Well… You're not going to ask House to give a speech about your new drug, are you?" he said, managing a smile.

"No."

Suddenly, a door to a patient's exam room flew open. House limped out, obviously irked by something. A wavering, questioning voice within the room was silenced when the door shut with a bang.

"House—" Wilson tried.

The older man stopped, shrugging innocently, his eyes widened in surprise at the oncologist's accusatory tone. "What? She thinks she's dying. I told her that if that was the case, she'd probably improve the world."

"_House_." Cameron looked appalled.

He shrugged. "There's no cure for stupidity. A runny nose isn't exactly a death wish." He sighed dramatically, surveying the room full of bustling doctors and not-so-sick, hypochondriac patients. "Being forced against my will in this Clinic _again_, however… _This _is drastically dangerous to my health."

Wilson and Cameron watched feebly as House ambled into the next room on his list, griping before he'd even examined the patient. Wilson scratched the back of his neck, wondering if he'd ever get a word in to talk to him.

Cameron shook her head, no less shocked by House's bedside manner than she had been when she'd started working at Princeton-Plainsboro. "No. He won't be giving any Happy Pill speeches. But he sure could use a free sample."


	2. Side Effects

House stared up at the ceiling and wondered what he did to deserve this.

The patient in the room was not enjoying himself much either. His stomach was twisted in knots and if he made that horrendous grimace one more time, House was going to congratulate him for being the ugliest person he'd ever seen in the Clinic. And that was quite an accomplishment.

"Doctor… What should I do?"

"You eat _toilet paper_," House retorted, waving the patient's medical file in the air. "I don't know. Maybe _stop eating it_?"

"You don't understand—"

"I should hope not."

"My psychiatrist said it was just a stage…"

"And I bet he suggested those $100 an hour meetings are going to work wonders as long as you keep going."

The man shrugged, face red. "_Is _it just a stage?"

"Just stay out of our lavatories. We put our toilet paper to another use here."

"_Doctor_."

"You know…" House paused, digging out his most empathetic look. "Let me call an colleague. She's an expert in this kind of thing."

"She eats toilet paper?"

"No. But I'm convinced she also has some kind of mental disorder."

House plucked the phone from its hook and waited the typical two rings before someone promptly picked up.

"Lisa Cuddy."

"Dr. Cuddy. Medical question for you."

"House? I thought you were in the Clinic."

"That's where I've been shackled. Now, as for that question: _What did I do to deserve this_?"

Cuddy scoffed on the other end of the phone. "Do you want the short list or the long list?"

"The short one. There are patients dying." House glanced back at the toilet-paper-eating patient, offering a glib smile. The man seemed poised to bolt to the door. _Perfect_, House thought.

"Fine. Short one, then: You've been yourself. Isn't that reason enough to deserve punishment?"

"Don't you have a new password to install, PartyPants?"

Cuddy contemplated hanging up the phone, then figured that was something juvenile that House would do, not her. "Look. House. You are years behind on your clinic duty. I'm doing you a favor. I'm giving you a full day of work to dedicate to make up some lost time."

"Why don't you confine me to slave labor?"

"You have no diagnostic case to work on. In fact, you haven't had a case for the past two weeks."

"They've been running marathons of _General Hospital_. I can't miss that."

Cuddy sighed. She could practically hear House suppressing a smile over the phone. "House. I don't even care if you're not nice. Just try to be professional."

"Aren't I always?" There was a clinking of pills as he unearthed the Vicodin from his black jacket pocket. "Now, Chase and Foreman on the other hand…"

"What?"

"Chase apparently can only diagnose female patients. And Foreman is giving tips on how to steal cars."

"He is not."

"You wouldn't know, though, would you? You're having too much fun lounging in your office and looking busy shuffling papers. Ah, I remember the days when _I_ used to lounge in my office. Fun, fun times."

"House, when I called you down to the clinic, you were building a house for Steve McQueen out of Viagra and tic-tac containers."

"Hey. Don't judge the rat."

"How could I?" Cuddy sighed. House could picture her massaging her temples, the pinched expression on her face giving her that subtle _why-has-male-maturity-stalled-on-the-evolutionary-scale _look.

"It's eight o'clock," Cuddy continued. "You have another nine hours in the Clinic, so make the most of it."

House listened to the click as she hung up, then added, talking to the dial tone, "That is completely unnecessary. But if you insist, I suppose we could get the patient into the ER by noon. If we cut him open, I'm sure we'll find _something_—"

"Doctor, I'm going to go." The man had already risen quickly from his seat on the table and was scuttling to the door. "I think I'm fine."

"Yeah. Just stay out of the bathrooms!" House shouted after him. He paused. The dial tone was furiously battering itself against his eardrum. "Why, thank you, Cuddy. Yes, I _do_ have a fantastic way with patients, don't I?"

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"Why should we be punished for House?" complained Chase as he slung the stethoscope back around his neck. He had just met Foreman as they both emerged from their respective Clinic rooms. The Australian had been tending a woman with a cough and Foreman had exerted _uncountable_ amounts of energy prescribing Tylenol for a headache.

"Eight years of medical school," muttered Foreman, shaking his head. "And we're back to household remedies.

Chase hadn't looked this disgusted since the drugstore had run out of his face cream. He opened his orange tic-tacs and took two, before complaining, "_We're _not the ones who torment Cuddy. _We_ could be running tests in the lab, or doing scans, or differentiating _something_—"

"But how nice of you to join me instead."

Foreman rolled his eyes and Chase tried to look innocent as House approached them, a smirk on his face. He paused, looking them over.

"Did you learn to _count _in medical school?"

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Because I see…" He pointed a finger at both of them. "One, two… I thought we had three little ducklings quacking around the hospital."

"Cameron hasn't been down here yet," Chase said.

Foreman was skimming his clipboard, trying to discern who his next clinic patient was. "I last saw her with Dr. Wilson."

House sighed, tapping his cane in mock-irritably. "How many times do I have to tell you? We don't leave Wilson alone with girls. _Jeez_."

"Well, here she comes now," Chase murmured, nodding off behind House.

The older man glared at her as she joined the group. "You're late."

"And you always are, too."

"A bit defensive this morning, are we?" House examined her expression. "I'd even say _smug_. What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"What did Wilson do?"

"_Nothing_."

"Everyone lies!" Chase jumped in.

House stared at him as if he just proposed they'd go deep-sea fishing for giant squid during lunch.

"What?" Chase asked. "That was your next line, wasn't it?"

"Yes. The key word being the possessive pronoun. It's _my_ phrase. Go get your own. Don't you have a bunch of cute Aussie slang to use, anyway?"

Cameron shook her head, emphatic. "It's nothing. So, how has the Clinic been?"

"Change the subject. Nice little trick." House shoved his clipboard with patients' scheduled appointments into her hands. "Here. Since you weren't doing your job this morning, you can do mine now."

"House—where are you going?" Foreman called as the diagnostician limped down the hall.

They didn't get an answer. It was amazing how fleet House could be with that cane when he wanted to. The interns stood in the center of the hallway, looking at one another, puzzled.

"Cuddy's going to flip if she finds out he left the Clinic," Chase said.

Foreman glared, annoyed by Chase's annoyance. "What do you care?"

"I care because I'm stuck here, too. If _he_ leaves, why can't I?"

Cameron watched as a disgruntled Chase retrieved his tic-tacs again. "Hey, Chase? Can I have one of those?"

The Australian indiscriminately tossed her the pack, diving right back into his complaining debate with Foreman. Clandestinely, she slipped a few Happy Pills into the container. The yellow barely stood out against the orange breath mints. He'd eat them without noticing a thing.

Cameron figured she might as well put her medicine to good use. If they were all going to be stuck in the Clinic for the entire day, they might as well be happy.

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Across the hallway, House was tapping the desk impatiently. The middle-aged woman taking calls and sending faxes looked up.

"Regis, I'd like to phone a friend."

She pursed her lips. "My name's not Regis."

"Please tell me you're not really that stupid." House twirled his cane, looking around as if it pained him to deal with subordinates. "I need you to page Dr. Wilson. Exam room 106. It's very, very important."

A flash of a pink V-neck caught his eye, and he turned to see Cuddy strolling down the hall. Quickly, he leaned in to the woman at the desk.

"I was _never here_," he hissed.

"Never saw a thing," she muttered back impartially. She picked up the phone as House shuffled away, slipping around the corner two seconds before Cuddy could have noticed him.

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Wilson, at the time, was in an elevator heading for the Oncology floor. He watched the numbers light up as he reached each level. He wondered absently when the pills would start kicking in.

Or, more to the point, when the first side effect would hit him. The rats had exhibited fear, Cameron had said. If that held true in humans, what could he expect? What was he afraid of?

Well… There was a fear of looking unkempt coming into work, which—while it apparently did not improve his taste in ties—would explain why he got up a half-hour earlier each morning to blow dry his hair. Then there had been that sporadic fear that House might hide his hair dryer. But those were both irrelevant now, considering he'd gotten his own place again.

He wasn't afraid of bugs; heights didn't make him queasy; public speaking was no big deal. When he thought about it, there weren't really any profound phobias that could cause problems. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the fear side effect wouldn't even apply to him.

**PAGING DR. WILSON. PLEASE REPORT TO CLINIC. ROOM 106. IMMEDIATELY**.

Wilson had just stepped out of the elevator when he heard the PA system order him downstairs again. He checked his watch. He had a half-hour exactly until his first patient meeting of the day, which would eventually give way to the dozen he had scheduled up until five in the evening. He sighed. House's consult better be brief.

Usually, though, they were. House typically just needed to vent, ask for an opinion on a diagnosis he already knew, and then mock Wilson's ties or shoes or hair or his pathological niceness. Something or other.

Wilson opened the door to exam room 106. His jaw practically hit the floor.

"You moved the _coma patient_? To the _Clinic_?"

House barely acknowledged Wilson's incredulity. He had his feet propped up on an open spot of the bed. He leaned back in his chair, fiddling with the remote and growing more annoyed as he realized the TV in the room wasn't hooked up.

"I wanted some company."

"And a person unconscious in a vegetative state is your idea of company?"

"The best kind. He shuts up when my show's on."

"He _always_ shuts up."

"Convenient, isn't it?"

Wilson thought back to those Happy Pills, one of which was dissolving in his stomach right about now, floating in tiny little particles through his cells and eventually pouring extra dopamine into his brain. Even with side effects, that would be nice right about now. Maybe his fear was of House forcing him to spend hours on end entertaining the coma patient. The scary thing was, he could actually see that happening. But House would probably make him get potato chips first. And a Reuben. And a TV that actually worked. Just the usual.

"House. Why did you page me?"

"I needed a consult."

"On the coma patient?"

"Uh, hate to break it to you, but it's my medical opinion that he's in a coma." House tossed the useless remote onto the bed at the patient's motionless feet. "If you have another idea, we could do a quick differential…"

Wilson searched the air for some patience, then leaned against the doorway. "What do you want, House?"

"Cameron was late this morning. She's never late. She was smug. She's never smug. And she was with you." He narrowed his eyes, a small smile spreading across his face. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything."

"As Chase says, 'Everyone lies.'"

"I thought you said that."

"Apparently my copyright has been violated. I'll be expecting him to pay a fine within the next week." He rummaged through his pocket before locating the Vicodin again. "And I also thought _you _would be honest with your best friend."

Wilson eyed him carefully. He couldn't exactly see harm in disclosing some information—otherwise, House would revel in tormenting him until he relinquished the news anyway. Arms folded, slightly guarded, he took a seat on the other side of the coma patient's bed, across from House.

"Cameron asked me to read a paper she wrote."

"Was it a good story? I bet you twenty bucks everyone lived happily-ever-after."

"It was a _medical _paper," Wilson said, humoring him. "She developed some new medication of some sort."

House raised his brows. "Well, that's interesting. What's it for?"

"It's still in the process, I think."

"What's it _for_?"

"She's spent a lot of time on—"

"Gee, I hope it's more interesting than this conversation is."

Wilson uncrossed his arms, smiling. "Fine. If you must know, it's called Dopathalamine."

House repeated the word lightly to himself. "Dopamine?" he surmised, sarcasm floating into his voice. "What, is this some kind of pill you can take to make the world a happy-go-lucky place?"

"Actually…"

"You know, never mind. I'll hear it from her first." House swung his left leg off the bed, his right one lagging a bit as he gingerly rose to his feet. "Don't want to spoil the big surprise."

The door shut with an airless thump. Wilson looked apologetically at the coma patient, who offered no commentary in return. House equally dragged them both around by House on an impulse. Oh, well.

Wilson was about to leave and return to his own office when he froze.

A faint, wispy figure was transcending through the doorway. She was just slightly shorter than he was, her ankle-snapping heels almost bringing them eye-level. Her flowing gown evoked Greek or Roman influence with an almost angelic flair; her gold hair shimmered translucently; her face nearly stunned him with its familiarity.

She looked an awful lot like Wilson's first wife, but that was impossible. Jillian lived across the country, never called anymore, and certainly did not have the physical makeup of a ghostly, see-through apparition.

"Hello, James."

But she certainly did sound like her.

"Uh—what's going on?" Wilson rose unsteadily from his seat. Even the coma patient seemed absurdly silent, given their bizarre new guest. "Who—who are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Hanukah Past."

Wilson felt the extra Happy Pills rattling around in his pocket. Great. Cameron hadn't given herself enough credit. The fear side effects took all of fifteen minutes to kick in.


	3. Something Rotten in State of Princeton

"Don't look so surprised."

Wilson blinked. "Right. I'm sorry. I should have expected to have a ghost drop in for a visit."

Jillian stared at him. Her eyes were bright, regarding his panicked expression blankly. Wilson, on the other hand, stared right _through_ her. He could see the wall, window, and trees behind her.

"You—" Wilson swallowed. "You're not really _dead_, are you?"

She sighed. "That would just kill the mood, wouldn't it? No, I'm not dead. Think of this as an out-of-body experience."

"More like an out-of-my-mind experience."

"That too. But you're the one who took the pills. You welcomed the side-effects."

"Somehow, I don't think that's exactly what I had in mind."

"If you want to be happy, you have to confront the fear that's keeping you from being happy," Jillian said simply. She walked—well, floated really—towards him. Wilson cringed back slightly.

"So—what? Are we…are we going to go visit my past now?"

Jillian burst out laughing as if the suggestion was uproarious. "What do I look like? A tour guide?"

"But you said you're the Ghost of Hanukah Past."

"Exactly. I didn't say Christmas, did I?"

"But—but—" Wilson sputtered.

"Look. If you wanted to visit your past, maybe you should start putting up a tree for December 25. You chose the Menorah, remember?"

Wilson's mouth was getting dry from all the gaping he was doing. "Um—then why—?"

"Why am I here?" She smiled, as charmingly as she could for being an unsettling apparition. "_I'm_ here to request a favor."

"A favor." Wilson mulled it over for a second. "That's how this works?"

"What? You can't tell me you've never read _Hamlet_." She crossed her robed arms, frowning. "Get the SparkNotes off the Internet when you have the time."

"Did Hamlet's ex-wife drop by?"

Jillian sighed patronizingly. "_No_, but his dead father did."

"So I should compare my living ex-wife to someone's dead father."

"See, it's not that much of a stretch, is it?" She went to pat him on the arm, but her hand passed right through. Wilson jumped back.

"Fine. I'll do a favor—and then you'll go away?"

"Three years of marriage and I would have thought I'd receive a bit warmer welcome. Oh well." She shrugged. Wilson still looked terrified. "I'm here to tell you about the Past."

"I figured that."

"Not _your_ past, but everyone else's. Over the last ten minutes."

"Ooookay…"

"You have to know that they all have fear complexes of some sort. I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out once the pills start working."

"Wait, wait, wait," Wilson interrupted. "Cameron is giving them Happy Pills too?"

"Chase is already on his fourth and doesn't even know it. That's what he gets for being vain about his breath. And Foreman was slipped some in his egg sandwich. And House… Well, Cameron just offered to get him something from the cafeteria, so…"

Wilson rubbed at his head. "She can't do that! If _I'm_ seeing ghosts, there's no telling what will happen to the others!"

"I know. They're even more insane than you are."

"I take it that was supposed to be a compliment."

"As you like it."

"Can we stop with the Shakespeare? This is all a bit stressing at the moment." Wilson raised his eyes to her. "Um… How long do you plan on staying?"

"You're the one taking the pills. I'm technically just a figment of your overactive, drug-induced, guilty imagination."

"That's reassuring."

"I figured it would be." Jillian tried to pick up the remote, but her hand kept passing through it. She muttered a complaint under her breath, then looked back at the coma patient. "Wow. He looks like he's had a rough day."

"Coming from a ghost, that means something."

-------------------------

"Here's your sandwich, House."

The older man took the Reuben from Cameron skeptically. He peeled off the wrapping and took a sniff.

"I smell onions."

"You asked for them."

"And mustard."

"You asked for that, too."

"What didn't I ask for that's in here?"

Cameron froze for a split second. "I—"

Frowning, House meticulously picked something from between the meat and the bread. "Cameron, I'm ashamed."

"House, wait, let me explain—"

"_Pickles_?" House twisted his mouth into a grotesque grimace. "Ugh. Whoever wanted something green and wet in their food was severely disturbed." He tossed the condiments into the nearest Petrie dish, which had been marked for mucus testing. Well, at least the color would be similar.

House took a self-absorbed bite out of his sandwich, which he decided he'd just as well eat in the center of the Clinic. A few patients in the waiting room peered at him.

"Oh, don't look so mopey. Go get something from the soda machine. Just don't breathe on my food. I don't need it contaminated. Unless, of course, you're not sick, which I'm assuming the majority of you are not. So you can either sit here and ruin your health by sucking in all the sick people's diseases, or you can get up and leave. Your choice. I'm just examining you."

Five people rose to their feet and literally fled the room. One woman grabbed her son and ran like they were refugees escaping for the border. House smiled contently and went back to his sandwich.

Cameron was just relieved House hadn't noticed the pills. Already knowing she wasn't going to get a thank you for the food delivery, she picked up her medical files and continued on to the exam room of her latest clinic patient.

Foreman suspiciously watched her as she went to attend a five-year-old with a scratch on his knee.

"What do you think she did?"

House was busy eating, but Chase looked up. He had been staring pointlessly into space, contemplating how good-looking his Australian features were. "Uh… What?"

"She has to tell us. We'll be stuck here all day. It'll be great conversation."

Chase opened his tic-tacs and swallowed a few more. "Or House will just drag it out of her," he added.

Foreman set down his clipboard, frowning. "Why do you always side with House?"

"I do not," Chase retorted curtly.

"Yes, you do," House cut in, his mouth full. "You don't have to be worried about your job, anymore. Vogler's gone if you haven't noticed."

"So I should only be afraid of my boss's boss?"

"So you're afraid of your boss?" Foreman prompted.

"Well, Foreman, I'm at a disadvantage," Chase said with a hint of sarcasm. "I don't go out and buy the same gym shoes."

"Where does everyone get this idea that I'm purposely _trying_ to be like House?"

"Because you are," Chase shot back.

"Oh, Eric, I'm flattered," House said.

"Am not!" Foreman gave a short laugh. "At least _I _don't run from every confrontation like a scared little rich boy!"

"For the last time, _I'm not rich_!"

"But you do run," House noted. "I'll put up a Wombat Crossing sign so no one hits you."

Chase glared pointedly at Foreman. "Well, _I_ don't get on my soapbox and preach about how hard it was growing up with my background."

"Right. You'd hide _under_ the soapbox," Foreman retorted.

"I would not! Take that back!"

"Wow, you guys sound just like my patient. You certainly have the immaturity part down pat," Cameron commented as she stepped out of the exam room. She nodded back to the toddler who was inside, now with a band-aid on his knee. Oh, the advancements of science.

Foreman glared at Chase, who tried to look angry but only managed to appear petulant. Cameron sighed, wondering if she should request some baby-sitting income next time their pay was brought up.

"Kids, if you don't settle down, you're all going to bed without dinner," House chastised. A few more patients' heads turned.

Chase pretended he was somewhere else, like on a beach maybe. Not the cold, trash-littered ones in Jersey… An _Australian _beach would be nice. Or maybe a little trek through the desert of the Outback—

"Chase." House's voice snapped him to attention. "You with us?"

"Only when it helps him," Foreman said in a singsong voice under his breath.

"Fine. You Figjams can yabber all you want. I have a patient to see."

House, Foreman, and Cameron watched, dull-faced, as Chase strode into the exam room at the end of the hall.

"Figjam. Is that a term of endearment?" House quipped.

"Yabber?" questioned Cameron.

"He's annoyed. I don't know. Maybe it brings out his Aussie side," said Foreman.

"Don't berate him too much, then. I don't want him tracking down Dingoes in his spare time." House checked his watch. "Well, time for a break."

"You just _had_ a break," Foreman said, gesturing to his empty sandwich wrapper.

"That was lunch. That doesn't count. Besides, this break is more like a consult—"

House cut himself off. The flash of pink was back. And it was rapidly, angrily approaching.

"If Cuddy asks, I went to use the little boy's room," House said, already limping in the other direction.

Cameron sighed. "House, what did you do now?"

"If you did nothing, I did nothing." He watched her, raising an eyebrow. "But I'm sure that paper you wrote is _immensely _interesting."

Cameron didn't have time to be surprised. Cuddy's shout pierced the air. "House!"

"All right, on the count of three, everyone run. I'll fend her off with my cane."

"_What_ would possess you to _move_ the coma patient?"

House waited until she had stalked right in front of her. Then he raised a finger in consideration.

"Actually, I was just going to check on him now."

"He has spent the last _nine years_ in that room, and you suddenly decide to put him into the Clinic?"

"It has a better view."

"He's _unconscious_ and he needs the medical care of _his room_."

"He has medical care. Dr. Wilson is tending to him."

"Dr. Wilson has meetings with patients today in Oncology. He actually _does_ his job."

"Not today. Today, he's helping me with mine."

"What job is that? Spreading chaos? Scaring off patients?"

"Luckily, the guy's in a coma. He won't notice a thing."

-----------------------------

"I don't understand. What's this favor you want me to do?"

Jillian had floated up to examine the TV hooked on the top corner of the room. She frowned when she, too, realized it wasn't plugged in.

"The favor," she said, returning back to Wilson's level, "is simply this: That you fix everything when it starts falling apart."

"Falling apart?" Wilson regarded her apprehensively. "When what starts falling apart?"

"The hospital. Specifically, the Clinic. That's where it'll start."

"Why? How?"

"I don't know. I'm just the Ghost of Hanukah Past. You'll have to wait for Present and Future to find out more details."

Wilson reached for a chair to steady himself. This was definitely one of those days where he should have "accidentally" overslept. "There are _two more _coming?"

"Actually, it's just me." House strolled ceremoniously into the room, tapping the doorframe with his cane as he passed through. "I figured you wouldn't have left yet."

Wilson tensed. He looked rapidly from House, to the Ghost of Hanukah Past, and back to House.

House watched him glance in a panic to a blank space in the corner of the room. He stopped, confused.

"What are you doing?"

"You can't—?" Wilson knitted his brows together. "You mean, you can't see her?"

"Her? If you're referring to Carmen Electra, I have to say, she hasn't made any appearances as of late. I should schedule another appointment soon, though. You know, random check-ups."

"No. House." Wilson stared at him, imploringly. "You really can't see her?"

"What are you talking about?"

Jillian sighed as if she were explaining something for the millionth time. "James, why _would_ he be able to see me? I'm _your _fear side-effect."

"But he took the pills!"  
"Vicodin isn't new, if you haven't noticed." House squinted at the space where Wilson appeared to be directing random snippets of dialogue. "Now, care to explain what you're doing?"

"I—you don't—but she's—"

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll learn how to format a sentence eventually," House said evenly. "Here's a hint: Noun, verb, direct object." He limped over to an open seat. Jillian stood in his way.

"House, wait! Don't—"

"_What_?" House spun around, but not before he passed right through the Ghost of Hanukah Past without even flinching. The apparition fizzled, rippling like fog momentarily before he stepped back out of her.

Wilson fumbled inarticulately for words. Jillian smiled at his confusion.

"Fine. Keep babbling." House walked through her once more, then promptly sprawled out in the chair. He shook his head at Wilson's frazzled face. "Is _this _how you entertained the coma patient?"

"James." Jillian floated over the coma patient's bed and back beside Wilson. It was unnerving—she was right in front of House, but the older man only kept looking at the oncologist. "Calm down. He can't see me. It's just you."

"You're going to have to give me some time. It's just a little strange."

"Strange?" House stared at the coma patient. "We've probably spent more time in the hospital with this guy than we have the rest of our patients combined! There's nothing strange about being around him."

"I'm not talking to _you_."

"You're talking to the coma patient?"

"_No_." Wilson sighed, frustrated, wiping a hand across his creasing face. "I'm—I'm talking to the Ghost of Hanukah Past."

House stared at him, deadpanned, for an instant. "In that case, I'd prefer you talk to the coma patient."

"I'm serious." Wilson glanced to the side, meeting Jillian's ghostly eyes. "I'm looking right at her now."

House tapped his cane a few times, listening to the sound reverberate in the otherwise quiet room. The coma patient's monitor beeped steadily, faintly, in the background.

"What is this," House finally said, breaking the silence, "Charles Dickens' a _Christmas Carol_?" "I'd like to think of it as a Hamlet metaphor," Jillian replied.

Wilson relented. "She'd like to think of it as a Hamlet metaphor."

"Well, we already have our Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," House said wryly, thinking back to Foreman and Chase. "I don't know. If we're talking about the Past, I still say Dickens.

"Wouldn't you play the role of Scrooge, though?" Wilson bantered.

"_Scrooge_ is the one who sees the ghosts. At least know how the story goes."

"He didn't know Hamlet, either," Jillian offered.

Confusion crossed Wilson's face. "I thought he couldn't hear you."

House raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Excuse me for wanting to feel included," Jillian snapped. "Besides if this was _A Christmas Carol, _you'd be the the selfish, money-grubbing misanthrope."

"All right. Maybe it wasn't the best metaphor," Wilson admitted.

"Whatever," House continued. "I didn't think Cratchit was that great of a guy, either. And Tiny Tim was just annoying."

"I suppose you're annoyed by limping people who are actually nice."

"You're the one talking to Wife #1. You got two more to go. Good luck with that."

Jillian turned to Wilson. "See? Obnoxious, rude, but at least well-read."

"Are you done yet?"

"I haven't even started!" House protested.

"I'm not talking to you! I'm talking to…" He could feel Jillian smiling beside him.

House just stared at him. "You're serious."

"Look. It's not me. It's those pills Cameron gave me."

"You told me she just asked you to read an article; not _test _the drug."

"That's his problem," Jillian put in. "He's a helpful guinea pig."

"I am not a guinea pig!" Wilson shouted.

"Uh—I never said you were—" House bit back a smile, unsuccessfully. "It seems to me, Dr. Wilson, that you might have some unresolved issues that needing attending…"

"House. Listen to me."

"I wouldn't. He's apparently delusional," Jillian interrupted. Wilson closed his eyes in attempt not to respond. If House couldn't see her, there was no point in looking even more idiotic than he did up to this point.

"Cameron invented a Happy Pill. But the side-effects can cause delusions."

House disregarded the latter half of the statement, too amused with the first part. "Happy Pills?"

"Yes."

"You're not making this up."

"_Why_ would I make this up?"

"It does sound like something Cameron would do," House mused. He ran a skeptical eye over Wilson. "Unless you're trying to explain your insanity."

"I'm not insane!"

"Look. I know it's been a stressful couple of weeks, but—"

"House." Wilson leaned forward in his seat, ignoring the fact that Jillian had decided to float in a sitting position right beside him. "I'm. Not. Crazy."

"You know that's the most popular saying among people currently bouncing around within padded walls."

Wilson shook his head, almost laughing at the futile absurdity of everything. "Listen to me. Cameron _did_ create a Happy Pill."

"Does it work?"

"She said it did. And obviously, the side-effects are real, so—"

"Because if the pill works, think about it. There'd be no pain, no hate, no anger, no war. Gandhi would be able to eat. Martin Luther King Jr. wouldn't need a dream. Hitler could have given up world domination and settled for throwing the best Friday night parties Germany had ever seen. He might have even invited you!"

"House, this is ridiculous."

"Is that what your ex-wife thinks?"

"She's not my ex-wife."

Jillian gasped. She went to slap him on the shoulder but her hand wisped right through. Wilson flinched anyway. "James, I'm insulted!"

"Okay, she's a kind of representation of my ex-wife."

"…That has taken form because of _your_ fear complex. Don't forget to add that." Jillian crossed her arms. "This isn't all _my_ fault."

"We established that a while ago."

"Established what?" House asked.

"Not you; her."

"I have a name, you know."

"I'm sorry: Jillian."

"Sorry for what?"

"Not _you_, House."

"There's no one else here!"

Jillian rolled her eyes. "Oh, great, so he doesn't even consider the coma patient human anymore?" "Does he really look like he's going to start talking?" Wilson asked tiredly.

"He's been in a coma for nine years!" House cut in.

"I _know_, the question was rhetorical. And I was talking to Jillian."

"Oh, I see. You'd rather have a conversation with an invisible entity than with someone who's sitting right in front of you."

"Is he always this sarcastic?" Jillian asked needlessly.

"Always."

House baulked. "So you _would_ rather ignore me—"

"No, not 'always' to you, I meant…" Wilson sighed, closing his eyes. "Okay. House. I know this probably looks insane…"

"How perceptive of you."

"…But it's not my fault. It's those pills."

"Oh, now I see. Blame Cameron's medical discovery for your lapsing sanity."

"House, I'm not going crazy."

A smirk was spreading across House's face as he slowly realized Wilson wasn't putting on an act. "This is good. I would love to take a CAT scan of your head right now."

"House, this isn't funny! I'm not one of your patients!"

"If we turned you into one of our diagnostic cases, I'd bet Cuddy would let me out of Clinic duty. What do you say? The whiteboard's calling your name!"

"House, I'm not joking!"

"_Wiiiilson… Wiiiilson_…" House taunted.

"Okay, you know what?" Wilson rose from his seat, holding up his hands in defeat. "I'm just going to keep taking these pills and hope the side-effects eventually subside. Cameron said the rats were fine within a few hours, so…"

House burst out laughing. "Rats? You took something she'd only tested on rats?"

"All right, that's not exactly—"

"Nice one. Really, really nice."

"You don't even think it's the pills anyway, so I don't see why you find that so amusing."

"True. I highly doubt it's the pills."

"You just think I've finally lost it, then?"

"Funny. I always thought I'd beat you to insanity first."

Jillian frowned. "He has. Don't worry."

"I'm not worrying," Wilson replied to her.

House arched an eyebrow. "I would be. You're talking to nothing again."

Wilson was about to protest, when suddenly a bang ricocheted through the hall outside. The oncologist and House moved for the door, Jillian floating right behind. House yanked it open, then wished immediately to shut it.

Chase was prancing around from one chair to another, as if the ground was made of quicksand and he couldn't let his feet touch it. He'd forgone his lab coat and tie for some khaki, hiking gear that he'd found who-knows-where. On his head was something that could only be described as catastrophic.

"Is that a…safari hat?" Wilson asked.

House went to answer, but Chase had already started speaking to the patients in the waiting room, who were huddling together for dear life.

"G'day, mates!" he announced in a thick accent. "They call me Chase the Crocodile Hunter. And I need everyone to remain calm. The situation is entirely under my control. I'm jess gonna trap our ol' girl before she chomps off any one of yer legs, and it'll all be apples!"

"That's the funny thing about slang," House muttered. "No one understood half of what he said, but he appears insane enough to make them worry. Look at those faces. I hope the security cameras are getting all this."

"Is this the 'falling apart' you mentioned?" Wilson asked, turning to face Jillian. But she was already dissipating before his eyes.


	4. Crocs and Gangstas

_Thanks so much for all the reviews, everyone! Here's the next installment. Let chaos ensue… : )_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House shuffled back out into the waiting room in the midst of Chase's little escapade. A rather concerned Wilson followed; Cameron and Foreman were a bit too stunned to do much of anything.

"The croc's gone walkabout, but s'all right, I'm trackin' her down! I'll drag her back to her nesting place faster than you can say—"

"_Everything's _okay here," House broke in. He grabbed a fistful of Chase's khaki sleeve and yanked him down from the chair. He turned to the patients, who looked as if they were all suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Patting Chase on the back, he ushered him into the nearest room. "We're just going to take you back for your examination, all right?"

"I thought he was a doctor!" one of the patients twittered nervously.

"He _thinks_ he's a doctor. It's a very confusing mental case," House assured her. "Cameron, Foreman: your expertise would be appreciated."

House turned back to Wilson, but the oncologist was suddenly staring, pale-faced, in the direction of what was apparently nothing.

"Oh, great." House gazed up at the ceiling, sighing.

Chase leaped back in front of the diagnostician, likewise searching the air. "What is it, mate? D'you see the croc?"

"Come on, Chase. In here," Cameron said gently, taking him by the arm. Foreman followed, not bothering to suppress a snicker.

"Hey!" House called to Wilson. "Will you be joining us or do I have to extend a special invitation for the ghost, too?"

"Uh…" Wilson hesitated. "Justine wants me to stay in the coma patient's room."

House shook his head. "Jillian. Justine. Julie. Here's your problem, Wilson: You have a fetish for J's." He paused. "But it _does _prove that your date with Lisa Cuddy was hopeless from the start."

"Thanks, House. That's really encouraging."

House watched Wilson resignedly return to the coma patient's room, apparently with Ghost in tow. Meanwhile, Chase was carrying on like a banshee with an incredibly piercing accent.

"_Crickey_! Have you seen her? Ain't she a beaut?"

"Chase." The door slammed dramatically behind House as the older man entered. "Remind me why I hired you."

The blond bounded toward House, hands held horizontally, palms down, in a protective stance. "Get down, mate! And shut yet trap! Right ere's a croc trail leadin' the way to her!"

"Those would be the floor tiles," Foreman said.

"But I bet," House said slowly, "if we use wombat bait, we could lure her right out."

"Ace, mate!" Chase slapped him on the back. "Now, jess where are we goin' to find a wombat?"

House leaned in conspiratorially. "Well, he'll have to be incredibly dumb. And preferably blond."

"Too right!"

"A medical degree would be perfect, too."

"How's that?"

"I don't know. Just thought it would be appropriate."

"House," Cameron said tiredly, "you're not helping." She turned to the Australian. "Chase. Where did you get those clothes?"

"This ere's my croc tracking gear!"

"From where?"

Chase paused. "Patient in room two is officially naked."

"Somebody check and make sure that's not Crocodile Dundee next door. As I recall, he had a rather frightening knife or something," House muttered. When no one moved, he raised a prompting eyebrow. "Well?"

"Simmer, son, I'll check it out," Foreman finally said.

Cameron stared as he sauntered out of the room with a bit too much swagger. "_What_ was _that_?"

"Strangest dialect I've ever heard," Chase murmured. He tilted his head in fascination. "Are all you Seppos that odd?"

Troubled, Cameron looked over to House. "What's wrong with him?"

"Other than the wardrobe, I'd say this is Cuddy's fault. By forcing us into the Clinic, she's stressed us all out of our minds."

"All?" Cameron repeated. "But I'm fine. And you are. And Dr. Wilson—"

"Yes, _he's_ currently chatting up the spirits of his guilty conscious. But other than that, oh, he's _incredibly_ stable mentally."

Cameron was at a loss for words. Wilson was finding himself in exactly the same state.

---------------------------

"Do you know why people feel guilty?"

Hesitant, Wilson looked across the coma patient's room and to his newest visitor, the Ghost of Hanukah Present. While she too was nearly invisible, Justine—unlike the traditionally-garbed Jillian—was currently applying makeup to match her sleeveless V-neck, her suede suit jacket, and form-fitting jeans. She pursed her lips and made a popping sound, checking to make sure the likewise ghostly lipstick didn't smear.

"Um…why?"

"It's like making a U-turn in front of incoming traffic, or ordering kung pao for a group because it's your favorite, even though you know everyone else likes the sweet and sour chicken."

Wilson blinked. Yeah. House had done that a few times when they'd called out for Chinese. Somehow, he didn't exactly think his friend was lugging around regret as a result.

"Uh…"

"They feel _guilty_," she continued, pocketing her makeup back into her sleek black purse, "because they knew what was right but they did the wrong thing anyway."

"All right. I know. Guilt is my fear complex. Jillian already told me the favor I owe. If you'll let me out of the coma patient's room, I can try and settle everything down in the Clinic. I'll do my favor—"

Justine put a hand on her hip. She'd always been dramatically forward about everything. "No, that's _Jillian's_ favor. I have a favor to request, too."

"But that's—that's not how it works," Wilson tried. "Jillian said that in _Hamlet_, his father requested _one_ favor."

She preened self-righteously. "That's because he only had one father. Maybe you should have thought about that before marrying three times."

"Yeah. I'll keep that in mind." He sighed. "All right. What's this second favor?"

Justine strutted—she didn't float—over to his side of the room. She pointed decidedly at the coma patient.

"Wake him up."

"I can't," Wilson shook his head. "He's been in a coma—"

"—for nine years, yes, I know. That's all you've been saying. I don't care. That's my favor: Wake him up." She checked her watch. "Look. Nice seeing you again, Jimmy, but I have a modeling interview for eleven. I can't exactly be hanging around his hospital much longer. Whatever disinfectants you spray in here make my hair frizz." She frowned. "I guess that explains _your_ hair, at any rate."

Wilson touched his light-brown bangs. "What's wrong with my hair?"

Justine smiled seamlessly. "See, if I wasn't being honest, I'd feel guilty. That's the trick. Know the shoulds and shouldn'ts, then decide what's right anyway, and no harm done. Look at House. Works for him."

"Wait!" Wilson moved toward her as she started fading out, just as Jillian had done. "How can I do this favor? I can't wake him up! He's medically a _vegetable_—"

"I'm sure you'll figure something out," Justine shrugged indifferently. "Of course, if you don't, I guess I'll just come back. We can review that guilt thing again."

Wilson's arms fell resignedly to his sides. The coma patient didn't budge. "Great."

"Oh, and don't forget the Happy Pills," Justine reminded just before she vanished. "They're essential…"

And then she was gone.

---------------------------

"No sign of the guy in room two," Foreman informed Cameron and House as he returned to Chase's examination. "He must'a bounced before I got there."

Cameron stared. Foreman had not only disposed of tie, but he had untucked his shirt so it hung baggily down to his mid-thighs. Which was a good thing, considering his pants now were pushed down to about his knee level. His swagger had turned into a definitively gangster waddle.

"Waz up, girl?"

"Uh—I—"

House leaned on his cane, studying the intern's newfound style. "Looks like Foreman's finally down wit his homies."

"Yeah, son, fo' _sho_'. I'm just chillin', doin' my thang—"

Chase blinked from beneath his safari hat, befuddled. "Is he lairing it up?"

"And I thought sports metaphors were bad," Cameron muttered.

"Here's a thought," House broke in. "Why don't we all try speaking English so we can figure this out?"

Foreman would have answered, but Chase's hat was slightly distracting. He poked at the brim, admiringly. "That's tight, bro. That's tight."

"Ehm, it fits fine," Chase replied uncomfortably.

House took one more look at his interns, then limped to the exam room door. Clinic Duty had just dropped to record-breaking levels of unimportance. Insanity was spreading like the new plague, and it was the perfect case for a diagnostician to work on. First Wilson and his delusions, not to mention his painfully contrived excuse that some imaginary pills were to blame; then Chase proclaiming his croc hunting skills; and now Foreman, who was acting as if he should be cruising around LA with the drop-top down and blasting Lil Jon.

"Whiteboard," he called to Cameron. "Now."

"I don't think so."

House froze as Cuddy met him in the doorway. Quickly, he slipped outside the room to talk with her, subsequently keeping the interns inside and out of view.

It was amazing how Cuddy could be annoyed before House had even said anything. "House. I told you, a full day of Clinic Duty. Whatever new case you have can wait until tomorrow."

"I don't think that's a very informed decision."

"What's there to be informed about?" Cuddy demanded. "So far this morning, you've treated one patient, paged Wilson, and ate a sandwich. What could have _possibly_ happened to make you suddenly run for the whiteboard?"

House paused. He could just hear Chase climbing a table within the exam room, and Foreman free-styling, insisting that Cameron provide the beatbox.

"Trust me," House said as seriously as he could without breaking into a grin. "This case… This case is off the heazy."

Cuddy closed her eyes and reminded herself why she kept House employed. "I don't know what you're up to, House, but right now you have a patient who's been waiting a half-hour for her appointment. She was already in my office complaining—"

"Say, you didn't happen to see Crocodile Dundee streaking around the hospital, have you?"

Cuddy just stared.

"No? All right, well, let me know if he makes a cameo anywhere."

"House, what are you talking—?"

Suddenly, the exam room door was thrown open. Chase came flying out, diving across the floor on his stomach. He skidded to a halt right in the middle of the waiting room. Some patients leapt to their feet. Others decided that now would be the perfect time to leave.

"No worries, mate! I got some good oil on our ol' girl's whereabouts. I'll catch her in no time!"

Cuddy looked appalled, and that was putting it lightly. "Doctor—Doctor _Chase_?"

"And he's the normal one, compared to Foreman," House put in. Cuddy caught one aghast look at the ghetto'd intern before reaching behind House and slamming the exam room door safely shut again.

"None of you are leaving this Clinic," she hissed.

"Are you blind? Chase should have his own show on _Animal Planet_ and you want him to stay here?"

"Yes. I don't want him trekking around this hospital. You're going to _keep them here_—"

"Ah, I see: Contain the disease, stop it from spreading."

For once, Cuddy agreed with House's analogy. "Yes," she said in a quiet, tense voice. "I'll start having the patients moved temporarily until you straighten all this out."

"Man, this is _shady_!" Foreman was griping from inside the room. He pounded on the door. House could feel it rattling against his back. "Come on, bust a brotha out!"

"You heard the man," House said dramatically. He surveyed the clinic waiting room suddenly, pausing. "Now where did our Wombat scurry off to?"

Cuddy gave him a stiff, warning look. "Find him. Before someone else does."

"Oh, and don't forget to take some more Happy Pills. They're essential…" 

Wilson replayed the Ghost of Hanukah Present's words. Standing over the coma patient, he observed the wrinkles in the pale face, the waxy, closed eyelids, the wispy hair. Maybe Justine hadn't just been referring to himself; maybe she'd meant the Happy Pills were essential for the coma patient, too.

Well, it was worth a shot, anyway. Nothing else the hospital had done for nearly the past decade had disturbed his slumber.

Wilson swallowed a Happy Pill, then carefully took out two more. Grinding them up into powder in his hand, he mixed them in water, put it in a tube, and injected the solution into the bag of his IV fluid.

Time would tell. Wilson checked his watch and mentally marked when fifteen minutes would be up.

Just then, there was another raucous bang against his door. Then another. Something hard slammed against the wall, followed by a crash of pottery and a thumping of something big and…leafy?

Wilson ran to the door, but when he tried to open it, he found it was stuck fast. Something was blocking his exit. He hit the door once with his open palm.

"Hey! What's going on?"

"Quiet! Croc's hearing is a fine art, mate; she'll hear you for _miles_!"

Wilson thought it sounded like a bad, stereotypical impersonation of Chase, but that would just be too weird. He rested his forehead against the door.

"I'm stuck in here. The door won't open!"

"Bloody oath! Ain't that the point, cobber?"

"_What_?"

-------------------------

From outside, House had a much better view of what was going on.

Chase had decided to create a fort out of two incredibly confused secretary's desks, some potted plants, and three waiting room chairs. It was all jammed up against the door to the coma patient's room, which was conveniently located right by an intersection of four hallways. It gave Chase the perfect lookout spot.

"Chase." House limped over him, calmly, as if he were talking to a bus stop acquaintance about the weather. "Come on. We have to work on the differential."

The Australian peered out from behind a potted plant. He'd stuck some random leaves in his hat for some badly attempted camouflage. "Mate, there's a _croc_ loose in the hospital! I can't be lolly-gagging over some whiteboard in a crucial time as this!"

"You have a point," House said evenly, "but what if I told you I have some valuable information on that crocodile you're so set on catching?"

Chase paused, an eyebrow raised. "You reckon?"

"I reckon."

As Chase limberly climbed down from his makeshift fort, House took the opportunity to tap on the blocked room's door.

"Hey! You still in there?"

There was some muffled noises coming from within the room. House squinted, trying to make out the conversation.

"…It's the pills. I'll explain in a second…"

"Are you talking to the Ghost of Hanukah again?" House asked teasingly.

"Uh…" Wilson's voice trailed momentarily. "Actually, I'm talking to the coma patient."

House sighed. This was going to be one interesting differential. "In that case, I'd prefer you talk to the ghosts."


	5. Out of the Coma

_We probably should've put this earlier, but just a note: This story takes place somewhere between "Who's Your Daddy" and "Euphoria." Basically, Foreman didn't almost die yet and House hasn't had a special visit from a gun-brandishing visitor. Yeah. Okay, on with the story…_

--------------------------

House had rummaged through the entire exam room in search of a whiteboard of sorts. He failed to find paper, much less paper big enough to constitute for a symptom brainstorm. Cameron was suggesting that maybe they could page someone to bring the whiteboard down to the Clinic when House unearthed a permanent black marker from a drawer and solved the problem himself: He began writing on the exam room cabinets.

"All right, differential time…"

"Uh, House, is that going to come off…?" Cameron asked tentatively.  
"Janitors are paid, aren't they? Might as well give them a job to do."

Foreman wrinkled his nose in distaste. "That's some ugly graffiti, son. Gimme the marker. Let a brotha show you—"

House yanked back his hand from Foreman's reach. "Haven't we been over this before? _White_board." He rolled his eyes upward. "Figures. Even the ghetto Foreman wants to do my job. Now sit down."

Annoyed, Foreman sulked back to the other side of the room, stepping between Chase and leaning up against the opposite counter beside Cameron.

He gave a dramatic chin-raise nod at her, crossing his arms. "Waz up, young breezy?"

Cameron hid her face halfway with the side of her hand. "Dr. House, this is really getting weird…"

House turned around, still writing in the middle of a word. "I'll say. He hasn't said two words to Chase about anything other than his hat. Come on Foreman, our Croc Hunter feels left out."

Foreman's eyes widened in half-hearted surprise. "Bro, straight up. I'm down wit shorty here, but that…?" He glanced over at Chase, who at the moment was trying to make a net out of empty IV bags and some unused (hopefully) patient paper gowns. Foreman tried again, "Is this crazy son my nizzel?"

"For shizzle." House turned back to his whiteboard—uh, white-cabinet. He stepped back so they could read the list:

**Delusions**

**Hallucinations**

**Insanity**

**Ghosts**

**Crocodiles**

**Gangsters**

"Any ideas?" House prompted. Unfortunately, Foreman already had an idea—to start rapping. Again.

He had the arm-sway down, bobbing back and forth from foot to foot, and looking as if he were particularly angry about something. "Get back, get back, you don't know me like that."

Cameron had actually run to Chase's side of the room, assuming his insanity was at least a bit safer. Chase had taken the opportunity to hide beneath one of the patient's gowns. It wasn't working too well.

House sighed patronizingly, tapping his cane against the side of the cabinet. "I hate to break it to you, Foreman, but you spent _one night_ in jail until Mommy bust you out with bail. You stole a car. Big deal. Commit a _real_ crime before you start going all gangster on us."

Foreman actually took the time to stop. He glared at House, jutting an accusatory finger at their substitute whiteboard. "It's _gangsta_."

"Fine. Have a speech impediment for all I care."

"Well…it can't be airborne," Cameron managed. She'd crawled to the top of one of the counters, leaving Chase to army-crawl across the floor with the gown draped over him, and Foreman to vent and come up with new raps.

"Why not?" House challenged.

"Because I'm not sick; you're not sick, no one else is but these two."

"And Wilson," House reminded her. He paused, his lips pulling into a smirk like they always did when he had a piece of information that could double as bargaining chip. "Actually, Wilson had his own ideas of what could have caused the onset of these symptoms."

Cameron blinked innocently. "Oh? Like what?"

"Like your Happy Pills. You did create Happy Pills, didn't you? I'm assuming this was another naïve attempt to make the world…oh, I don't know…_happy_?"

"Observant," Cameron muttered, before making eye contact again. "Yes. Yes, so I made these pills. What does that have to do with anything?"

"You gave Wilson some."

She hesitated. "Yes, but…"

"He says these pills cause delusions. Do they?"

On any other day, Cameron would have admitted that they did. But at the present time, her groundbreaking medication hung in the balance, as did her chance to outdo Foreman. Besides, there was no one-hundred percent evidence that the pills caused delusions. She _had _given them to Dr. Wilson, Chase, Foreman, and House after all—only three-quarters of those people had been affected. House was his typical snarky self.

She had no idea why.

"Cameron?"

"No." She shook her head. "They don't cause delusions."

"Fine, then scrap that idea. It's not like anyone else besides Wilson took the medication anyway." House lowered his chin to his chest, thinking, while Cameron tried not to look suspicious. "Not pills, not airborne… What did they have to eat today?"

"Uh… Chase had—"

"Fire-cooked ostrich in the skillet!" Chase called from beneath his patient gown tarp.

"—a turkey sandwich earlier, and Foreman—"

"F-to-the-Oreman!"

"You haven't reached rapper status to break up your name," House retorted. Foreman, who had been muttering incoherent rhymes over the past few minutes, stopped just long enough to glare at House.

"Son, you don't _know me_, yo, you don't _know me_."

"Ah-huh. You've only worked here for the past two years."

"You don't _know me_, yo."

"Right now, I wish I didn't."

"He had an egg sandwich," Cameron finally squeezed in.

"Ah, yes, the food of the ghetto." House returned to the differential. "And I had a Reuben. Those all come from different tables at the caf, though."

"So maybe it wasn't food," Cameron quickly put in, anxious to get off the subject of potential poisoning. Not that that's what her pills had done, she assured herself. They weren't a cause of these symptoms—they _couldn't_ be.

"Jess a minute, Seppos!" declared Chase, crawling out from beneath his tarp. He approached House, hands on his hips, hat askew and cocked to the side. "Now, I was promised some information on where my croc is. Have I made a blue in trusting you?"

House closed his eyes momentarily. "Dr. Cuddy has called animal control," he lied impeccably. "Professionals should be arriving any min—"

"_Pro_fess_ionals_!" Chase yelped. He gripped his hat as if his appalled reaction might make it fly off. "You send the bloody dog catchers after a limb-chomping, teeth-filing killer?"

"Teeth-filing…?"

"S'no tellin' what will happen if these rookies get in 'ere and try to trap her! Bloody oath! It'll be chaos like you cobbers wouldn't _believe_—!"

"I can assure you, they have all the qualification necessary," House said, completely unruffled. "_You_ have to focus on this differential."

"No way, mate!" Chase suddenly dove forward and snatched the black marker out of House's hand. He was leaping onto the counter before House could stop him.

"You're the Croc Hunter, not George of the Jungle," House muttered, limping speedily after him as the Australian dashed from counter, to chair, to exam table, nearly knocking over Cameron, test tubes, and a rather disgruntled Foreman in the process.

Chase finally got his foot stuck in the sink, which ended the pursuit rather abruptly—and with a loud clunk.

"All right now, Chase? Give me back the marker," House said.

The blond stared, gasping, at the open palm. "_No_!"

"Chase, what do you want with the marker?" asked Cameron as rationally as she could.

"You don't know what you're _dealin'_ with, mates!" Chase cried. He managed to stumble back to his feet, still standing on the counter. House went to interrupt but the Australian was already absorbed with drawing on an open cabinet space.

"But now _he_ gets to do graffiti? Y'all just excludin' a brotha. That ain't right."

"Okay, we get the idea. You're upset." House bothered to take one look at Foreman before returning his attention back to Chase's scribbles. "Either suck it up or go back to your crib and cry."

"Nah, son, I ain't no poseur. I got the illest raps, the med degree, droppin' it _real_ from the East Side, know what I'm _say_'n?"

"Not really." House squinted at Chase's drawing, which was looking like a great Cubist interpretation of Jackson Pollack's work, if that's what he was aiming for. "Chase, _what_ is _that_?"

"You mean to say you can't tell, mate?"

"Ooh, it'll be like Pictionary!" Cameron said hopefully. "Um… It's a flowerpot!"

"Are you blind!" House interrupted, gesturing to the drawing with his cane. "It has legs! A caterpillar!"

"That's just messed up, son. That's just messed up."

Relenting, House agreed. "Well, art _is _open for interpretation. When I look at that I see…crap. But I really _feel _it! It's like—like the crappiness of your soul—"

"Fine," Chase snapped, putting the cap back on the marker, "be a knocker! You bludgers wouldn't bother to take a Captain Cook anyhow!"

Everyone stared, confused.

House raised an eyebrow. "Quick. Someone Google what he just said. Some website should be able to translate. And if not… Does Chase ever say anything that's _really _important? No? Great! We'll all be fine, then."

"It's the _croc_," Chase sighed in exasperation. He drummed the marker up against what was apparently supposed to be the animal's forehead. "Now, look at this _stunning_ creature and tell me your dog catchers will be able to handle her."

"What is that thing growing out of her head?" Cameron asked.

"Those are her _eyes_, for cryin' aloud, Shelia!"

Chase was too busy defending his drawing, and Cameron was too preoccupied being confused, and Foreman was too involved in his latest rap, to notice that House had left.

--------------------------

"Are we still at war with Nam?"

Wilson had pulled up a seat to the now-no-longer-a-coma patient's bed. The elderly man had himself propped up against the headboard with a pillow and was looking around with obvious irritation.

"Uh… No, the Vietnam War has been over for three decades," Wilson replied, slightly confused. "You had to have seen it end. You were only in a coma for nine years."

"Are those idiots still set on flying to the moon, too?"

"We've—We've been to the moon. And Mars. And some other planets."

"I bet you crazy young'ins got flying cars!" he snapped.

"Not quite. Sir? Are you all right?"

"Do I _look_ all right? I just came out of a dagnabbed coma!"

"Yes, so I understand that you're a little confused. I'm sure waking up is very exciting—"

"Exciting?" spat the coma patient. "What are you, insane?"

That seemed to be the common belief, Wilson thought, but he was too taken aback by the patient's anger to speak aloud.

"I spent nine blessed years in that coma and then _you_ have the nerve to drag me out of it with those blasted pills!"

Wilson stared in complete shock. "You mean you didn't _want_ to wake up?"

"Who would? Bunch of lunatics wandering around out there anyway. But if I keep on sleeping, I get a nice bed, time to myself—" He gestured to the IV, which was still dripping fluid into his arm. "I don't even have to throw in my dentures to eat!"

"You—you were a _vegetable_," Wilson sputtered.

"A _happy_ vegetable. Now I have to put up with this nightmare. God, the one thing I'm afraid of happening, and it happens!"

Wilson leaned back in his chair, sighing. Oh, great. The coma patient's fear complex had been waking up. The Happy Pills had struck again, and no one looked particularly happy about it.

"Well, don't just _stand_ there," the coma patient demanded. "_Do_ something. You woke me up! Put me back to sleep!"

"I don't think I can…"

"What do you mean? You're a doctor! What were those pills you gave me to begin with?"

The oncologist rubbed at his temples. "I gave you some new medication. It… It's supposed to create euphoria, but first it triggers fear."

"Don't you lie to me, sonny," the patient snapped. "I did two tours in Nam, and I can tell you, I've seen every kind of medication there was for the stuff we came across, and there is no such thing as _that_!"

"Sir, it's 2006. Thirty years later."

"You wouldn't _believe_ the crazy stuff the government had in secret labs—"

"I took some of these pills, too," Wilson tried. "I know the fear effects. I'm seeing ghosts."

"Ghosts?" The patient was silent for two seconds, and then he threw his head back into chest-rolling laughter. "_Ghosts_? No wonder I've been asleep for nine years! They gave me a crazy doctor!"

"I'm not crazy," Wilson said, but his insistence was sounding less and less convincing. "And I'm not even your doctor."

"You sure were in here enough. I have every line of _General Hospital_ memorized thanks to you and your potato-eating-slob of a friend."

Wilson wished he could rewind that whole statement. "_What_? How could you know that?"

"Listen here, sonny. I've been in an unresponsive coma. That doesn't mean I couldn't hear."

Wilson was about to object that actually, yes, it did mean he couldn't hear; because his brain was technically in deep-freeze, but just then there was a familiar knock on the door again.

"Hey!" House called through the doorway, which was still blocked by Chase's lookout loft. "Who are you talking to now?"

The oncologist sat back in his chair again, realizing just how unfairly bizarre his life had become in one morning. "The coma patient."

"Is he up or is this just another hallucination?"

"Shut up, you soap-watching complainer! And learn to eat over your plate! I got nine years worth of potato chips over this bedsheet!"

Wilson picked up the coma patient's files attached on the end of his bed. He could at least attempt to distract himself with something that looked remotely professional.

Even House paused at the elderly man's outburst. "Good morning. Nice to see you up-and-at-him."

"It would be _nice_," barked the patient, "to see the inside of my eyelids again!"

"Uh-oh," House said in a lilting voice. "What did you do to our coma patient, Dr. Wilson?"

"He gave me some new-fangled medication! I'm a veteran! I demand my rights!"

"Sir…" Wilson perused the patient's history within the file he was reading. "Uh… It says here you have no history of military service."

"Of _course not_!" the patient exploded. "It was top-secret. You young whippersnappers think you know this world inside out? You don't know the half of it! The government knows what you ate for breakfast this morning!"

"I don't see how that relates," House muttered from outside.

"Of course you wouldn't!"

Wilson furrowed his brows in increasing perplexity. "Sir, according to this, you fell into a coma in November of 1997..."

"Correct."

"…but only after you were diagnosed with amnesia."

The patient stared at him, expressionless. "I don't remember that."

"No, I wouldn't think that you would," House commented.

Wilson set down the file. "Do you have any idea who you are?"

"You have the doggone file; who does it _say_ I am?"

"There's no name," Wilson said. "And no mention of military duty, no nothing."

"I see this hospital takes great medical histories."

"We live for them," House said with fake sincerity.

Wilson scratched at an imaginary itch on his neck. The coma patient was growing more annoyed by the minute at the whole situation's inconvenience, which he viewed Wilson's solely responsible for. "Okay. Mr…?"

"Just call me what you have been calling me. Mr. Coma Guy."

"We meant that with the utmost respect," House interrupted.

"Actually," the patient said on second thought, "make that _Special Private _Coma Guy. That was my rank in the military."

Wilson was similarly wondering if someone could just shoot him. He had an awake coma patient who was delusional because of the medication and because of his amnesia; and he had one more ghost to be expecting.

All because of those darn Happy Pills.

Wilson sighed. Special Private Coma Guy sat up straighter, glaring disapprovingly at the doctor.

"You look pathetic, Soldier. Now, you got us into this mess, so figure something out."

"I'm going to have to keep giving you those pills," Wilson finally decided. "The side-effects wear off within a few hours. Once that happens, you'll probably lapse back into a vegetative coma."

"Thank you, I'm saved!"

House knocked again on the door. "What are you talking about? The pills don't cause delusions!"

"Of course they do, House! How else would you explain this?"

"Cameron said there are no side-effects."

"Everyone lies!"

"No! That's _my_ line!"

"Well, you're not saying it."

"Fine! Everyone lies! But even if they do cause delusions, that doesn't make sense. Foreman and Chase are acting insane, too—"

Wilson realized House didn't know about what Cameron had done. He got to his feet and walked to the door, speaking through the crack so House could hear him more clearly. "They were slipped pills in their food."

"Cameron lied _again_?"

"She just wants everyone to be happy."

"She could've baked us a cake or something, not drugged them," House muttered. "Now Chase has turned into Steve Irwin and Foreman thinks he and Snoop Dogg are tight."

"And…" Wilson said hesitantly, "and you?"

"What about me?"

Wilson paused. "Cameron gave you pills, too. You're not feeling…strange? No fear symptoms?"

The oncologist could practically hear House's skepticism. "Uh…_no_…"

"But that doesn't make sense."

"It's an anomaly. I like anomalies."

Wilson could hear the cane clicking, the sound getting further and further away. He knocked on the door to call House back.

"Wait—what does that mean?"

"It means our differential has changed. And you have a Secret Private Coma Guy to entertain."

----------------------------

Wilson listened until House's steps and tapping of his cane had faded out. He turned back around and nearly fell over.

"What the heck is wrong with you?" grumbled Secret Private Coma Guy. "You like you've seen—"

"Don't say it," murmured Wilson. He nodded a greeting to the Ghost of Hanukah Future. "Hey, Julie."

She tilted her head at him, tapping a finger at her bottom lip. "Long day?"

"Just a bit."

Secret Private Coma Guy's eyes roamed back and forth around the empty room. He had decided his doctor was insane after all. "Just a bit what?"

"James, I have come here not to ask a favor, but to warn you."

"Warn me? Warn me of what?"

"The hospital is going to be getting a surprise visitor…"

"Dagnabbit, what the heck are you gaping at, sonny?"

Wilson's mouth dropped open when Julie told him who it was.

----------------------------

House had limped back towards the exam room. Inside, Foreman was finishing up his rap and Chase was trying to fix his crocodile drawing. Cameron looked like she was close to tears.

"You," House said to her as he threw open the door, "_lied_."

He would have said more, but suddenly there was a roar of something that sounded suspiciously like a motorcycle. But they were in a hospital. No one rode bikes right through Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching—

Of course, there's always a first time.

House turned to face the looming figure on top of the bike as it pulled up, the engine still revving. On any other day, he might have been surprised. But this apparently wasn't any other day.

The man on the bike pulled off his helmet with some difficultly. He'd had a heck of a time cramming it over his disproportionately large, ego-swelled head.

House leaned amiably on his cane. "Hello, Ed."

"It's _Edward._" Vogler stepped off his black motorcycle, small eyes glimmering as a smirk crossed his face. "And I've come back to destroy you."


	6. Dark Agent of Doom

A lot had happened in the months after Vogler crashed his controlling, money-wielding presence into Princeton-Plainsboro, then was overruled by a board who decided even $100 million was not worth losing House, Wilson, and the bravado to _not_ run a hospital "like a business."

A lot. Like, it had actually been relatively _pleasant_ at the hospital. Lab coats were shunned for the heck of it. Chase decided siding with House was a better idea. No one even moved into Vogler's office after he left. Most claimed it stank of self-importance. Others assumed House might inflict some kind of hex on it.

Vogler, in the meantime, had been busy flouting the expectation that the hospital's rejection of his money should keep him down. In fact, it had done just the opposite. Apparently, his touching little story about Alzheimer's didn't go very far—or maybe he suffered from it himself—because he suddenly lacked the motivation to do anything constructive with his money. Over the past year, he'd bought a private jet (Cuddy had been right about him being able to afford one); three absurdly large houses in three different states; a couple cars that would make even the mechanics on _Pimp My Ride_ weak-kneed; and—in attempts not be outdone by House—a flurry of Harley-Davidsons.

One of which, of course, he was currently goading upon.

Vogler waited for a reaction from House. He'd anticipated the doctor to snap back with typical sarcasm, but only indifferent silence was returned. In fact, the limping doctor seemed a bit preoccupied with something that was happening in a Clinic exam room.

Vogler cleared his throat again. He was not going to jipped of his big entrance. "I _said_, I'm back to destroy you!"

Suddenly, an ear-splitting, monotone beep shattered the air. Anyone who wasn't deaf or didn't have a defective hearing aid cringed at the alarm. The halls dimmed, a white and red siren-light flashing momentarily to grab everyone's attention as if the hospital warning system didn't have it already.

**LOCK DOWN. LOCK DOWN. PLEASE REMAIN CALM. FOR YOUR SAFETY, THE HOSPITAL IS GOING INTO LOCK DOWN.**

House craned his neck upward to the PA system's automatic voice system. This was new. He'd known that in drastic situations, Cuddy could declare a Level Three, Code Red warning, causing the hospital basically to shut itself down. Every doctor was briefed on the details: No patient or employee would be able to leave the building, nor enter. The corridors adjoining different departments would be separated by metal doors that dropped from select doorways. Where you were, you stayed, until whatever problem had been solved.

And the problem had to be dire. Most times, it consisted of either a deadly disease rampantly spreading within the hospital, an unlikely but media-declared-potential terrorist attack, or an unforeseen emergency.

House wondered if Cuddy viewed the interns' insanity the emergency or Vogler's reappearance. Personally, the latter was more troubling. Particularly because he was dressed in leather.

"As you can see," House said calmly, over the alarm and flashing lights, "we've already done a pretty good job at destroying things without your help. But thanks for the offer. I might take you up on that later."

The metal doors started their descent. Vogler's face was crest-fallen and growing more frightened by the second.

"What the heck is going on?" he demanded.

"What wild game is this, mate?" Chase suddenly came bounding out of the exam room, despite Cameron's attempt to hold him back by the shirtsleeve. He took one frazzled look around, ducking intermittently at the lights, before the system leveled out again as it completed the lock down. Chase stared in horror at the immovable metal doors that now caged them in.

Foreman looked even more terrified. "Yo, my _rights_, son. I got my _rights_. I ain't gonna be held wit'out trial of my peers—"

"This isn't _prison_," House cut him off. "Cuddy likes our company so much she just wants to keep us here a bit longer."

Vogler was so set on spurring on House's downfall that he didn't even acknowledge how odd the two interns were acting.

"Dr. Cuddy?" Vogler raised a surprised brow, but his expression rapidly turned into a resentful sneer. "Oh, right, the genius who turned down my $100 million."

"I see you put it to good use, too," House retorted. He tilted his head at the bike, considering. "Well, that's a nice twenty-grand there; and judging by how that leather jacket fits, I think it's safe to say you used the rest to buy Twinkies."

Vogler was about to say something, but then Foreman noticed their new visitor.

"Yo, brotha from the Hood, waz up? Give a dawg some love—"

The multi-millionaire cringed back from Vogler's extended hand. "Get away from me."

"Yo, don't be hatin'."

"Dr. Chase…" Vogler's smile was sickeningly sarcastic. "And how have you been?"

"Jess apples, mate, 'til the _croc_ showed up. And now we're trapped with her right 'ere in the same vicinity. You picked a bloody bad time to drop in!"

Vogler baulked at his accent.

"Couldn't agree more," House said, grinning. He twirled his cane in his hand, watching as Vogler's eyes followed it briefly before settling back onto his face. He narrowed his eyes. "Now. Just how were you planning on 'destroying' me again?"

-----------------------------------

The lights and alarms in the coma patient's room were likewise in upheaval. Wilson, who had been warned by the now departed Ghost of Hanukah Future, was still less than ready for the chaos.

Secret Private Coma Guy, however, seemed as if he'd marked this date on the calendar and was more than prepared.

"This is my secret mission!"

The last time Wilson was reduced to a facepalm was during House's speech for Vogler. It looked like it was time again for another.

"Pull it together, sonny!" Secret Private Coma Guy was dragging himself to his feet. Jell-O had more consistency than his legs did. Grasping onto the wall for support, he gradually shuffled toward the door, yelling at Wilson to get out of his chair and go help his country.

"We're trapped inside the room," Wilson called feebly. "And we can't leave anyway—the hospital's in lock down."

"Your generation, always complaining," muttered Secret Private Coma Guy. "Thank God you yellow-hearted sissies weren't in Nam."

"Sir, you _weren't_ in Vietnam, either."

Secret Private Coma Guy conveniently wasn't listening anymore. "Do you hear that siren? Listen to it. It's our call to duty!"

"It's the hospital going into—"

"We have a responsibility to our friends, family, and country, boy! Now, are you with me or not?"

"_Sir_," Wilson protested, "what are you talking about? There's nothing to do, no enemy to fight. It's just a lock down for safety precautions."

"No enemy to fight!" The patient looked horrified. "What about that Vogler character you were rambling on about?"

Wilson shrugged weakly. "So he's coming back. He's a businessman with an axe to grind apparently."

"And you're just going to let him grind it into our country?"

"Uh, sir, this is a hospital—"

"No, siree! Generations have fought to keep this land free, and now it's our turn to take up the flag!"

Well, Wilson had to admit, it _was_ a relative metaphor. Vogler was the enemy; he was the invading force. He understood the concept of defending their territory… But at the moment, they were still sealed in by a Wombat fort.

He watched as Secret Private Coma Patient knocked once on their door, ear tilted toward it, then effortlessly threw it open. He might as well have been opening a jar of pickles.

"That's the difference between 'can't' and 'will,'" Secret Private Coma Patient said self-righteously.

Wilson was slack-jawed. He moved quickly over to the door, staring in disbelief. The whole fort had disappeared.

That couldn't have been a hallucination in itself, right? Chase really had built a fort there. House had really talked with him through the door. The hospital was really in chaos…

Wasn't it?

"How did—but there was—"

"Stop babbling, Soldier, and pick up the pace." Secret Private Coma Patient wasn't really a great example of picking up much of anything. Wilson was willing to bet a week's worth of cooking for House that a snail with a limp could lap the elderly man.

Taking a quick scan of the corridor, Wilson determined that they were isolated within the Clinic by a series of metal doors. The hallways were mostly deserted because of the lock down, too.

Except for one man, with a cast of his leg, who was struggling to maneuver himself into a wheelchair. A nurse held it, waiting with some obvious distress on her face. The lock down had nearly frightened five years off of every employee's life.

"Sir!" Secret Private Coma Guy just barely made his creaky way over to the other patient. "Sir, do you love your country?"

The man with the cast blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Thank you!" I'll make sure to tell the General what you've done!" With that, the coma patient grabbed the wheelchair from the nurse and hopped in, flying off down the hall. The man with the broken leg stared. Wilson gave an empathetic shrug of apology, then dashed down the hall after the now-swift Secret Private.

-------------------------------

From a distance down the hall, Cuddy could see House across from some oddly familiar figure who was on an oddly unfamiliar motorcycle. The interns were gathered around behind House. The bike was still smoking. Great. All she needed was for it to blow tile pipe in the middle of her hospital.

She stalked over to the group, hoping her heels sounded as furious as she felt.

"_What_ the _heck_ is going on? House, I put this hospital in lock down for Chase and Foreman, and then—" She spun around toward Vogler. "There are no motor vehicles allowed in this hospital!"

"And no vengeful party-poopers, either," House added. "Oops. I guess you really shouldn't be here, then, huh?"

"Dr. Cuddy." Vogler's expression was disgustingly glib. "How nice to see you—"

"I'd tell you to get out, but unfortunately, you're going to be stuck in," Cuddy cut him off. She glared. "In the meantime, you can _park _your bike and find yourself a seat in the waiting room. Don't touch anything, don't manipulate anyone, just _sit down_ or I will call police and have them arrest you the second we're out of lock down."

"And just when will be out of lock down?" Vogler retorted.

Cuddy glanced over to House. "Whenever this situation gets resolved."

Vogler looked genuinely confused. He didn't often look genuinely anything. "What situation…?"

With perfect timing, Foreman stepped forward, rocking his head back and forth as he kept rhythm to an inaudible pulse.

"Yeah, son, I finally got my rap down. Ya'll listen. It's off the heazy, fo _sho_."

"Foreman…" Cuddy said warningly.

The intern wasn't listening. "Yo, someone gimme a beat!"

Vogler saw the obvious discomfort on everyone's face—though House did seem rather amused—so he figured he'd encourage their embarrassment. The businessman attempted his first and hopefully only attempt at beatboxing.

"A'ight, yeah," Foreman nodded, getting his time down, then started:

-- -- --

"One, two, now drop it like it's hot

We can stop your ache with a morphine shot

And give you pills when it's pain you got

F-to-the-Oreman hits the spot

-- -- --

I'm so good, you'll sack the rest

My rhymes put you in cardiac arrest

Poppin' collars on the lab coat—still best-dressed

The illest come to us, we'll run the test

-- -- --

Yo, we keep it real on the Jersey side

Won't let your heartbeat fall below thirty-five

Sign a DNR? Why? We can revive

Take an IV and enjoy the ride

No need to freak if ya'll weak with the flu

Or ain't no other doctors who could cure you

Cuz we gangstas, son, we do what we do

We diagnose disease wit our bad-ass crew

-- -- --

Chillin' out in the club, House wit his cane

Can't lie, don't try cuz he knows pain

Ya'll bob your head, song's like a tumor in your brain

I'll run a CAT scan, and drive you insane

Hat on crooked, shook me off

He's a croc-hunting-Aussie with a lookout loft

Took Cameron by surprise but that boo's soft

Now let me hear ya'll before the rap turns off

-- -- --

F to the Oreman! Bring that back, I say

F to the –"

-- -- --

"_Foreman_!" Cuddy shrieked. "Stop! That's enough!"

"Yo, why you messin', girl? That was _tight_."

Chase still looked confused; he'd taken to hiding under some now empty waiting room chairs. House looked around for a security camera, desperately hoping that was all safely recorded. Cameron had curled up in a self-protective ball against the exam room door.

Vogler looked like he might consider offering Foreman a record deal. He didn't have a label, but he figured he could always buy one if there was money left over from the Twinkies.

Cuddy had a hand to her face, shaking her head. "Foreman, what is _wrong _with you?"

"He's upset. We're apparently 'all up in his face, yo,'" House replied.

"Foreman." Cuddy took a step closer, realizing just how badly the situation has escaladaed. He and Chase weren't merely delusional; they were suffering from complete personality changes. "You're not ghetto-fabulous, okay? You went to medical school at Columbia. You are an intern at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital."

"I'm still Foreman from the Block, yo," he insisted. To prove his point, he pulled up his right-hand sleeve, exposing an inked sign on his hand. "This here's a _gang_ tattoo, son."

"You told us that was a Native American symbol."

"Everyone lies!" Chase called.

House was about to claim back his catchphrase but never got the words out.

"And so we meet, Dark Agent of Doom!"

Everyone turned to see a shriveled, elderly man wheeling himself into the picture. He glared determinately at Vogler.

The businessman baulked. "What? Me?"

"Dark Agent of Doom," mused House. "I actually like that one better than 'Ed.'"

Cuddy's face had just paled from white to translucent. "Is—is that the _coma patient_?"

"Wilson made a new friend," House said.

The scene was ridiculous. On one side sat Vogler on his bike; on the other, the coma patient on his wheelchair.

"I am Secret Private CP reporting for my mission handed down from the US Army. I have tracked you down, Dark Agent of Doom, and now—"

"Don't say it," Vogler snapped.

"—I will destroy you."

A euphoric laugh suddenly interrupted the whole thing. Even the coma patient wheeled around to see who was stumbling up behind them.

It was Wilson. A suddenly very happy, giddy Wilson.

House stared. "What happened to you?"

"I just—just realized," Wilson said between gasps of laughter, "that I love…_everybody_!"

"Cameron," House turned to the intern crumpled on the floor. "Is _this_ finally the effect of the Happy Pills? Insane giddiness?"

"Happy Pills?" Cuddy asked. "Would somebody _please_ explain to me what is going on?"

"Run for yer _lives_ mate!" Chase suddenly screamed. He gestured wildly to the opposite side of the hall. "_It's the Croc!_"

Everyone spun around. Wilson collapsed into unmitigated hysterics.


	7. Reasonable Diagnosis

_Thanks everyone for the reviews! It's nice to know people are reading and enjoying the story. : ) Also: There's a new character in this chapter... Hopefully, you've seen all of season two in order to understand who he is. Or you could just read some spoilers._

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The crocodiles in Australia actually come in two types: Estuarine and Johnson, saltwater and freshwater types respectively. They spend their time basking their thick scales beneath the hot, tropical sun in the Northern part of the country. They grow anywhere from three to seven meters long.

(House knew all this, because if he was an unofficial expert on snake venom, well, who knows what other random animal facts he has floating around his head?)

He knew one more thing about Australian crocodiles: They did not resemble cute, stuffed animals from the hospital gift shop.

The one Chase was pointing to wouldn't have frightened a three-year-old. In fact, the three-year-old might have curled up next to it as bedtime toy. The most dangerous thing about the creature Chase was gaping at was that the price tag attached to its tail was a potnetial a choking hazard.

Of course, don't tell a paranoid Aussie that.

"Quick, mates! Get up off the ground b'fore she gets you!" Chase scrambled to the nearest potted plant and attempted to scale the trunk like a frightened squirrel. He wasn't having much luck.

Cuddy closed her eyes for a second, then marched over to the stuffed animal. Picking it up, she returned to the group, holding it out accusingly.

"Who's idea was this?"

"_Put it down, Sheila!_"

"Chase. It's not real."

"She's _sleepin_', mate, jess wait until she wakes up and finds you _holdin'_ her!"

"She was made in Taiwan," Cuddy retorted, holding up the tag. She squeezed its fluffy body to prove her point. The toy actually squeaked.

While Chase tentatively climbed down, Vogler began to chuckle pompously to himself. House leaned back on his cane.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," the diagnostician said curtly.

"Chase, you always were gullible," Vogler smiled.

Cameron, still curled on the floor, glanced up. "_You_ put the crocodile there?"

"Of course not. I have people who do those kinds of things for me." Vogler decided not to mention that his money-hungry henchmen were actually now sealed out and separated from him, thanks to the lock down.

"He uses slave labor," House elaborated. "Third world countries. Those kids on the sidewalks with their lemonade stands." He dry-swallowed a Vicodin then stared resolutely at Vogler, not bothering to waste a full-fledged glare on the man. "What's interesting is how you'd know to torment our little Aussie before you even showed up. How would you know what was happening?"

"I've been prepared," Vogler responded with smooth, fake charisma. From his pocket, he withdrew a folded wad of papers.

Cameron immediately recognized them. "My preliminary notes!"

"I must say, Dr. Cameron," Vogler continued, glancing over them again, "these Happy Pills were a brilliant idea. Really charming. Too bad the side-effects are…shall we say, less than desired?"

As if to reiterate his point, Wilson started laughing again. He leaned up against Secret Private Coma Guy's wheelchair to keep from rolling on the ground in hysterics.

"Get a hold of yourself, Soldier!" the Secret Private snapped. "We got ourselves a situation, here!"

"We certainly do," House murmured to himself. He was trying incredibly hard not to fume over the fact that Vogler had known about the Happy Pills and their effects long before he himself had. "So, Dark Agent of Doom. You manage to steal Cameron's notes. _Amateur_. You've done nothing but plant a toy crocodile here. If this hospital does collapse into chaos, you've done nothing to help it along. You might as well go hop on your bike and find yourself a Born to Be Wild tattoo."

"Dr. Cameron's preliminary notes were quite interesting, though," Vogler continued smugly. "I don't believe she's told you all the details?"

Cuddy arched her already arched eyebrows. "Cameron…?"

The intern's face was growing redder by the second. "Um… The Happy Pills… They take a while to get out of your system."

"How long?"

"You have to up the dosage to get through the delusional part. That's why Chase and Foreman think they're from the Outback and the Ghetto right now."

"Their fear side effect was being stereotyped," House realized.

"Yes, but they didn't take enough to overcome that stage yet, like Dr. Wilson did."

Wilson tried to confirm her point, but only laughed.

"If Chase and Foreman don't start increasing their intake of Happy Pills, they're going to remain like they are until then."

"Well, then increase the Happy Pills!" Cuddy said. "What's so hard about that?"

Cameron hesitated. "But then they get into the euphoric stage of the pill."

"Example A," House muttered, gesturing offhandedly to Wilson, whose uncontrollable giggles had reduced his face to a bright shade of fusia.

Cuddy waved her hands in a prompting motion. "Which lasts _how long_?"

"Because the dosage must be increased…" Cameron closed her eyes. "The pills can take over a month to finally wear off."

Wilson found this little piece of information particularly hysterical. There was a _thump_ as he hit the floor, arms wrapped around his stomach as he laughed.

"This—this is really—bad news," he managed. "But it's okay because—because—life is happy!"

"There goes Oncology," House announced. "Hey, at least he'll be able to entertain the cancer kids. I'm sure a side-splitting doctor will improve their mood _dramatically_."

"Cameron, why in the world would you release medication that has such damaging effects?" Cuddy demanded.

"There—there not _damaging_," Cameron protested weakly. "If everyone's laughing, everyone will have a good time. No one will be miserable."

"Ah, yes," House agreed. "We'll all be crazy, but hey, at least we're happy now."

"Except you," Cameron interrupted. She almost sounded disappointed. "You're just as cranky as ever."

"It is interesting, isn't it?" House murmured.

Vogler scoffed at his self-proclaimed arch-nemesis. "What's interesting? The guy's incapable of happiness. No surprise the pills don't work on Dr. Vicodin Man."

Suddenly, a smirk broke along House's face. "That's it."

Cuddy was in no mood for another harebrained idea. This one better be good. Particularly because Foreman had now decided to attempt graffiti on House's cane with the black marker.

House would have stopped him, but he figured it was far better having Foreman distracted by art rather than rapping. Besides, he'd just solved their differential.

"It's the Vicodin," he announced. "The Vicodin balances out the Happy Pills. It negates the side effects."

"How?" Cameron was incredulous.

"I'm guessing your pills prompt a fear reaction because of the excessive endorphins, right?"

Cameron nodded.

"So in come the fear side effects, which also trigger feelings of fear: Wilson and his wives, Chase and the croc, Foreman and his…" House watched warily as Foreman gave up on the graffiti and started picking at his invisible afro he'd apparently grown over the last hour, "and his Ghettoness."

"And the Vicodin—" gasped out Wilson from between laughs.

"The Vicodin is a pain-reducer. Cameron, thank you for proving my point: Happiness always leads back to pain." House smiled victoriously. "All you have to do is start these giddy lunatics on Vicodin and they'll be back to normal in no time."

Cuddy actually smiled. Cameron looked relieved. Chase was still shrinking back from the stuffed croc, but what can you do? Foreman was debating with himself on whether or not he should blow out his fro or get the dreds braided.

Secret Private Coma Guy was demanding he get his Vicodin right now so he could go back to sleep.

House turned to face the proverbial Dark Agent of Doom again. "Looks like you're plan didn't work out so well after all—"

He was cut off by the furious roar of the motorcycle. Vogler revved up the bike, yelling something probably meant to be offensive and intimidating but entirely inaudible over the noise. The tail pipe emitted a puff of eye-tearing smoke, blinding everyone temporarily. House could feel the brush of the bike as Vogler rode by in a burst of speed down the corridor.

Secret Private Coma Guy declared that he was on the pursuit. No one stopped him, because it seemed kind of sad to have to run down an elderly man in a wheelchair.

"The—the—" Wilson quickly inhaled, trying to suppress the rest of his laughter, "House—the Vicodin—?"

"I don't know. I kind of like you this way."

"_House_," Cuddy warned.

"I'm just _joking_," House said, sighing dramatically. He dug through his pockets for his ubiquitous pill container. "Here you go. Don't take them all because my leg's in more pain than you are laughing…" House suddenly stopped.

"Come on, House," laughed Wilson, still unable to pull himself to his feet. "This isn't funny!"

Cuddy stared at the diagnostician's befuddled face. "What?"

"The Vicodin." House pulled his empty pockets inside-out to prove his point. "It's gone."

----------------------------------

Vogler practically ran over a door to the furthest Clinic exam room. He clutched the Vicodin container tighter within his palm. Getting off the bike with the grace of a drugged gorilla, he slanted a chair against the door, essentially locking himself in.

"What are you doing?"

The Dark Agent of Doom started at the voice behind him. A patient sat, apparently still waiting for his check-up, on the exam room table. His black hair receded entirely from the top of his head; his chin was oppressed by a day and half's worth of scruff. If you squinted, he looked like a combination between Danny DeVito, Billy Crystal, and Bruce Springsteen. Two of three, not so bad. He had the roughened Jersey face and speech down to perfection. He probably drove like a maniac, too. The name on his chart said _Moriarty, Jack._

Vogler liked him immediately because Vogler liked anyone he could use.

"How are you today, sir? My name is Dr. Vogler."

Moriarty had had a long day. He'd been waiting two hours for someone to check his cough and assure him it wasn't life-threatening. In the meantime, he'd caught sight of a crazed Australian and a gangster who had apparently broken out of New Jersey's State Prison and raided the hospital. During lock down, he'd dashed for the nearest exam room and decided to sit it out in there.

He looked this Dr. Vogler over suspiciously. He didn't know of any qualified doctors who wore leather jackets and rode motorcycles. (Yes, House does both, but typically not during an exam.)

"Uh… I think I'm just going to go home." Moriarty rose to his stocky feet. He glanced once more at Vogler in front of him, then toward the sealed door. "This is the worst hospital I've ever been to."

"Would you believe I almost donated $100 million to it?" Vogler asked, smiling.

Moriarty paused. "That's the craziest thing I've heard yet."

"I know. And it's all Dr. House's fault."

"Dr. House…?" The name didn't ring a bell. "Is he the Australian—"

"Nope. He's not the ghetto guy, either. He's in a league of insanity all his own."

"Hah," Moriarty tried a chuckle. "And I thought _those_ guys were crazy." He paused, noticing the glimmer in Dr. Vogler's eyes. "Uh… You're not one of those vengeful people, are you?"

"Me?" Vogler tossed the container of Vicodin from chubby hand to chubby hand. "It depends on the day. And you?"

Moriarty shrugged. "I've really got no reason to be."

"Well." Vogler leaned in, raising a brow. "What if I gave you a reason?"


	8. FaceOff

_YES! Finally, the upload worked! Sorry for the delay... The story has actually been done for the past three days. Now, to end the suspense... ; )_

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The one time House could actually put to the Vicodin to good use, he didn't have it. Cuddy was annoyed, but she could still function rationally.

"So just go to the pharmacy. It's right at the other end of the Clinic!"

"That would be a brilliant idea," House agreed, "if the designers of this lock down system hadn't decided to put one of their fancy metal doors around it."

She rubbed her head. "Well, that was pointless."

Foreman had found some patient's discarded baseball hat that was left in the waiting room. He put it on his head, tilting it to the side in gangsta fashion. "It won't fit over my fro, son!"

"You don't _have_ a fro. That's your stupidity manifesting itself into a subconsciously physical entity."

"Yeah, G."

"Come on." Cuddy grabbed House's sleeve with one manicured hand and Foreman's with the other. "We're going to find Vogler and get this straightened out _right now_."

"Man, that hoorider is _wack_," Foreman griped.

House smirked. "So we speak the same language after all."

-----------------------------

Meanwhile, Moriarty was struggling to understand what Vogler wanted him to do.

"Okay. So you'll give me $1000 if I just hold on to these pills?"

"Yes," Vogler nodded, growing impatient. Even Chase hadn't been this clueless. "Keep them in your pocket. Don't let anyone know you have them."

"But what are they for?"

"Nothing important. Just hold on to them." Vogler gave the seat of his motorcycle a resounding pat and then went to leave. As he climbed onto his motorcycle, he turned back for a split second.

He didn't have any final words of wisdom to give Moriarty. The only reason he turned back was because his leather pants picked this moment to rip. Dear readers, I will not elaborate on why the Dark Agent of Doom wears Barbra Streisand boxers. There is a line to draw with randomness.

But since he had turned around, he had to say something to make it look good. Belting out _Someday My Prince Will Come_ seemed kind of inappropriate, so he went with the next best thing:

"And don't be surprised if they start coming after you," Vogler said.

Moriarty nodded. He glanced once more at the pills. "Uh—nice boxers."

-----------------------------

Vogler drove out of the exam room, keeping Moriarty hidden inside. He was halfway down the hallway when he was beset by House, Cuddy, and a swaggering Foreman. The intern was wearing a pink baseball cap that read _Someone In New Jersey Loves Me_.

"Ya'll goin' _down,_ son," Foreman called.

Vogler stopped. He even got off of his bike, this confrontation far too entertaining to miss. "What brings you fine doctors here?"

"The pills, Vogler," Cuddy said firmly. She held out her hand and waited, glaring. "_Now_."

"And suddenly this is my fault." Vogler sighed, shaking his massive, beach-ball-shaped head. "If you'd only taken my $100 million…"

"Oh, would you let that _go_ already," House snapped. "We should've taken the money and spent it on one giant space shuttle to blast you to the moon. That would have solved a lot of things."

Vogler was on the verge of chuckling again. "But you chose to reject the check. Your loss. So now—"

"Holla, son, I gotta give you props, yo."

Vogler turned, aghast when he realized Foreman had just climbed onto his precious motorcycle. The intern patted the glossy side of it, impressed.

"Get off of there right now! Do you have any idea how much that costs?"

"Nah," grinned Foreman, revving the engine. "Dis is tight. On the rilla, son, you did a'ight with that cash."

"See, Vogler, don't you feel so much more reassured?" House said, placating.

If Vogler's head _was _a beach ball (and we have our theories), it was on the verge of popping any minute now. "Get off—"

"Yeah, son, I'm down wit _dis_ ride. Wat you think, G?" He grinned over at House, an expertise on bikes. "Lookin' fly now." He revved the engine for show.

Cuddy wasn't quite sure who to stare at this time. "Foreman, since when do you know how to ride?"

He waved a hand, grinning. "I'm just playin', dawg. I don't know—"

Suddenly, Foreman cranked a wrong knob and went speeding off, leaving the others in a puff of exhaust smoke.

"Well, hopefully he figures it out soon," House said, watching as the intern and bike grew smaller and smaller down the hall.

"My bike!" Vogler screeched.

"I'm sure you'll be able to afford another." House stepped in front of him. He made sure his cane landed on one of Vogler's spotless leather shoes. "Now. Those pills."

"I don't have them."

"I'm in no mood for this," Cuddy interrupted. She stepped between Vogler and House, holding out a demanding hand. "Give them over now, or I will call the police."

"And have me arrested for what?"

"Assault. Harassment. Breaking and entering. A trespassing motor vehicle."

"Being ugly in a public vicinity," House added. "I hear that's a big sentence in Jersey."

Vogler glared through his smug expression. It gave his face a prune-ish look, which—compared to the previous metaphors—was a relative improvement. "I _don't have them_."

"We _know_ you have them," Cuddy persisted, annoyed.

Vogler turned his pockets inside out, just as House had done before. They were empty. "Surprise."

-----------------------------

Back in the waiting room, Wilson was about two steps further from where he'd been when Cuddy, House, and Foreman set off after Vogler. Another burst of laughter had hit him, stalling his efforts.

Chase was crouched in pouncing position on one of the chairs. He was contemplating helping Wilson, going out in search of the croc, or hiding from them both.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could just make out Secret Private Coma Guy returning from down the hall.He had a look of grave importance scrawled on his face.

His wheelchair squeaked to a halt right in front of Wilson. The oncologist, sprawled on the floor, was eyelevel with one of the wheels.

"Get up, Soldier! Your country needs you!"

"Vog—Vog—"

"This is no time to Strike a Pose!" cried the Secret Private. "Those friends of yours are on the wrong track!"

"Vogler has—"

"No, he doesn't!" Secret Private Coma Guy threw up his wilted hands with frustration. "Haven't you read the pamphlet, Soldier? We have a Situation 0017485 on our hands right now! Article IV, Section III: The Art of Diversion. The Dark Agent of Doom doesn't have the pills on him; he's passed it on to someone else, someone we'd never suspect!"

"Like… _That_ guy?" Chase suggested. He pointed down the hall, where Moriarty was slinking out of an exam room.

"ATTACK!" cried the Secret Private. It took him a good half-minute to get his wheelchair rolling.

Wilson collapsed again in laughter. "Go on—go on without me!"

"No! We never leave a man behind!"

"Seriously—go—"

"Soldier." Secret Private Coma Guy fumbled for a bit with the wheels until he got his chair spun around to face Wilson. He gave a small nod of respect. "For all your insanity, I've come to value your companionship over the mission."

Wilson was trying to say that's nice, but he didn't really want to be reduced to a pile of giggles for the next month.

The Secret Private wouldn't have listened anyway. Managing to stand up out of his chair, he tried to drag Wilson into it instead.

"No, stop—" giggled Wilson.

"I'm saving your _life, _sonny!"

Overcome with such a sudden onslaught of hilarity, Wilson accidentally toppled the wheelchair over. It collapsed into a heap. A wheel went bouncing down the hallway.

Secret Private Coma Guy clutched his own head, gasping. He held his wrist to his lips, speaking into his hospital ID band as if it were a Top-Secret radio.

"General! Our transportation has been destroyed, _Sir_. We have no means with which to pursue the enemy, _Sir_. Requesting further backup ASAP, _Sir_!"

"Chase—" Wilson pulled himself together just long enough to nod toward Moriarty.

"But that ain't the croc, mate!"

"More—important—"

"Crickey! Whah's more important than the ol' girl?"

Wilson covered his face with his hands and was officially lost to laughter.

Chase was getting a bit worried, so he decided maybe he would be better off finding some new company. He wasn't entirely sure what Moriarty had to do with anything, and he didn't see how in the world he would have the pills. But perhaps this patient knew further info about the croc.

Chase stealthily followed him, ducking behind potted plants every now and then. Belly-crawling back to the coma patient's room, he stopped in horror to find his fort had been torn down. Troubled, he examined the tracks in the plants, the indentations in the dirt, some pink fabric fuzzies left on the scene. Either a croc in a skirt dissembled his lookout, or Cuddy had.

Regardless, Chase figured he didn't need the fort after all. Moriarty had run himself into a corner at the end of the hall, his back against the metal door that sealed off the all-important—and inaccessible—pharmacy.

"Stop jess right there, mate! I have a few questions fer you!"

Chase didn't even have to say anything. His flamboyant dive toward his newest pursuit was enough to make the patient freeze.

A container of pills rattled in Moriarty's hand. He glanced to the clock, not knowing how he was going to explain to his wife that he'd spent the entire day at a hospital running from crocodile hunters and Barbra Streisand underwear. He might have better luck getting her to buy the latter.

"I'm _kind of busy _right now."

"I reckon you are. Jess hand me over those pills for my mates and you'll be on yer way, then."

"Uh… I can't."

"C'mon, cobber. Jess toss 'em here, no worries."

"I don't want any trouble."

Chase raised an eyebrow. "Well, _maybe _you should'a thought of that b'fore you got yerself mixed up with a croc!"

"A what?"

"A _croc_."

Moriarty paused. "A—a what?"  
"A _THIS_!"

Chase and Moriarty both looked up at the new voice. From the other end of the hall, Vogler

tossed something plush and green toward them.

The stuffed crocodile skidded to a halt between them. Chase's shriek reached a level usually reserved for horror films and teenage girl sleepovers.

"No, Chase!" Cuddy's voice came into the picture. She stepped out from behind Vogler. "It's not

real!"

"CRICKEY! D'you see the _size_ of her!"

House emerged, standing beside Cuddy. "Your shoe size is bigger!" he called. His voice dropped into calm, rational tones. "Chase. Pull it together. Step over the stuffed animal and get those pills."

Chase was dubiously terrified. "You—you want me to walk _over her_?"

"No," House retorted sarcastically, "I want you to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea with her."

"For cryin' aloud, I ain't a _Brit_, mate!"

"You're not much of a crocodile hunter either, if you can't do this!"

Chase took a wavering breath. The crocodile's beady little button eyes stared back. She was apparently awake now.

These Seppos knew nothing about the dangers of crocs, he thought…but they _did_ seem to need those pills quite desperately. It was time to face his fears.

Inhaling deeply, Chase closed his eyes and took a dramatic leap over the toy that would have made every hopscotch player in the world proud.

With a quick move, Chase snatched the pill container from Moriarty's hand. Cuddy cheered, and House waved his cane for him to get on with it. The two quickly moved toward Chase. A shocked and rather confused Moriarty slipped out of the gathering crowd without anyone caring of his departure.

"Glad we'll never have to see him again," House muttered. "Now, Chase. Let's see those pills."

Chase grinned, dumping them out in his palm. "Right'o, mate."

"Uh… Chase?"

"Yeah, mate?"

House picked one up, examining it to the light. "These aren't Vicodin."

"No way, cobber—are you sure?"

Cuddy sighed, exasperated. "They're _aspirin_."

"Well, that would be effective, too," House griped, rubbing his head as he returned the pill to Chase's hand. He already had a headache and his leg was started to hurt. "So if Vogler's little henchman didn't have the pills, _who_ _does_?"

-----------------------------

Just then, a spewing motorcycle came roaring up from down the hall. Foreman was leaning over the handlebars, grinning into the wind. On the seat behind him was Secret Private Coma Guy.

The vehicle shrieked to a stop, dousing Vogler in a burst of tail pipe fumes and black smoke. He waved his hand, furious. "Get off of my bike!"

"Not so fast." Secret Private Coma Guy hobbled down from the back seat, taking his own advice as he inched his way along. Creakily, he stood up beside the bike, waving a shriveled, crooked finger at Vogler, looking like someone's upset grandfather. "You've caused our country a lot of problems, you dang son of a gun."

"My _bike_—"

"It's not your _bike_ you're so worried about," Secret Private Coma Guy continued. He nodded to Foreman, who pried off the back seat of the motorcycle. Beneath it was a hidden storage space; within that was the stolen container of Vicodin.

"How did you know--?" Cuddy started to ask.

"Haven't you read the pamphlet, Soldier? We have a Situation 0017486 on our hands right now! Article V, Section I: The Art of Diversion's Diversion." The Secret Private handed the Vicodin to House. "I believe these belong to you, you potato-eating slob."

House nodded, immediately popping a pill for himself. "Send my respects to your General."

Secret Private Coma Guy gave a tuft of his nonexistent hat. "Yes, I'll be sure to do that." He plucked a Vicodin from the container, announcing grandly, "God bless our great land," before swallowing the pill and immediately conking back into his long-awaited coma.

Cuddy sighed with relief, taking the container out of House's hands and gesturing for Chase and Foreman to get their dose. She could hear Wilson laughing down the hall and set off to find him.

House, meanwhile, whirled his cane, stopping to tap the floor with it victoriously. "See?" He smirked at Vogler's disbelieving expression. "Tenure goes a long, long way."


	9. Epilogue: Drug of Choice

**Epilogue: Drug of Choice**

House is incredibly thrilled to discover that the hospital security cameras _did_ record everything thoroughly. The footage has been used effectively for the police reports and for future blackmail.

House has made sure Chase got a copy of his crocodile hunt, Foreman of his ghetto swagger, and Wilson of his nice little chats with apparently nobody. He even gave the coma patient one, for when he wakes up. Wilson's convinced he's not going to. House laments that our country's lost one of its greatest heroes.

Vogler had been looking at a court date to examine several laws he broke, but House convinced Cuddy to drop all charges. Vogler was so happy that he actually thanked House for going easy on him. House shrugged it off modestly, saying there were no hard feelings. He even offered to buy the multi-millionaire lunch.

Vogler was so grateful he never even noticed the Happy Pills crammed between his fish fillet.

Edward Vogler, now convinced he's a janitor, currently works the night shift the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital cafeteria. While there aren't often many people there during those hours, House makes sure to stop by and drop trash so Vogler will have something to sweep up.

Even Wilson thinks it's funny, but House is a bit suspicious whenever the oncologist breaks into sudden giggles.

Cameron never released Dopathalamine, commonly referred to as the _Happy Pill_. Her medical report, "Positivism in a Pill: The Future of Hope," was turned into Foreman's "Disaster in a Pill: The Future of Chaos." It was promptly published in a highly acclaimed medical journal. Cameron, the inventor of the ominous Happy Pills, was none too happy.

Cuddy got the hospital out of lock down by the next day. She hopes to never have to use it again.


End file.
